Harry Potter and the Return of the Insanity
by SpamWarrior
Summary: I now present you with the third installment of my already bloated Insanity trilogy, in which I've taken every cliche and horror I could possibly imagine and crammed them into one gigantic mishmash that might, with some imagination, resemble a fanfic. XD
1. Part One

All right, you guys, this is it. The first part of the third and final installment of the Insanity Trilogy. Okay, people, I'm warning you now, THIS THING IS HUGE. This is only the first fifty-four pages, and if my guess is correct this opus is going to wind up about three times that. (Hence my posting it in parts.) I also warn you that what you are about to read is complete and errant nonsense, plucked from my brain over the last two months and committed to paper in bits and pieces. For those of you with the guts to make it through this thing, I award you......um.....well, nothing, but you get the point. Anyhow, er, enjoy......::bursts out laughing:: (Um, ignore me.) ^_^

The Next Great Adventure

The night was chill and dark, with a great round harvest moon shining down on field and city and village, lighting all with a dim, silvery glow. Nearly every living thing beneath it was asleep, but in one small cottage near the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, a sixteen-year-old boy named Harry Potter was not to remain so for long.

Harry jerked awake with a start, his face bathed in sweat and heart pounding like mad. He'd been dreaming, he knew that, but it wasn't his dream that had woken him. He sat up and rubbed his face, reaching absently for his glasses and knocking over his glass of water in the process.

"Bother," he muttered, perching the glasses on his nose and throwing a wad of tissue over the mess. He cast about for his slippers, found only a half-eaten box of candy, and shivered as he pulled his bathrobe on. Moonlight was pouring in through his open window; brilliant, silver-golden moonlight that lit the ground-mist to an eerie splendor and made Harry wince and squint. The night had been warm when he went to sleep, but it sure wasn't now; Harry could fairly see his breath as he stumbled across the mess to shut the window, stepping on the soggy tissues and yawning.

Tissues were about the only normal thing in his room, which was crammed with enough oddities to give all the Dursleys a coronary. A bookcase on the far wall was stuffed with schoolbooks, both new and old, and littered with bits of correspondence from his friend Hermione. She was coming down to see he and Ron near the end of the holidays, but wasn't due for another day or so. A box in the corner was loaded with enough fireworks to blast the whole village sky-high, were it not protected with a number of tricky spells invented by the Marauders in years gone by, and piled all around it were the various order-forms that Ron's brothers Fred and George had sent his way for approval. Harry privately felt they were more interested in Sirius's opinion than his; they held his godfather and the other Messrs. in something like worship.

He'd been living with Sirius for two years now, ever since, through a very bizarre and complicated tangle of events, he, Lupin, and his friends had managed to prove Sirius innocent. The little man who was responsible for Sirius's wrongful conviction in the first place had lost his arms and the greater portion of his sanity in the process, but no one really cared about him, and Harry's life outside of Hogwarts had taken a very drastic turn for the better since then. 

He and Sirius had bought this little cottage the summer before, and had been living after the fashion of two single males ever since--like slobs. As the Weasleys lived only the next field over, Mrs. Weasley had been spending the majority of her time trying to worm her way into the house with a broom, but Harry and Sirius would have none of it--they were proud of their mess. After all, they argued, Harry had been trapped with his neat freaks of relatives for most of his life, and Sirius--well, no one liked to talk about where Sirius had been.

Harry winced at the thought of Azkaban; it always started him on a whole chain of painful memories, and now he paused in the middle of his room, lost in them once more. Sirius had escaped to save him, but he would have had nowhere to escape from if it weren't for Pettigrew. And if it weren't for Pettigrew, his parents would still be alive...........

Almost by instinct, his eyes were drawn to the bookcase, one shelf of which was filled with wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him were countless pictures of his parents--one of their wedding day, one shortly after he was born, one of they and all their class at their graduation ceremony so long ago. 

Here was a very battered photo of Sirius and Lupin, about to dump a bucket of something unpleasant on his father's head; his mother had her hands over her mouth in the background, though whether she was about to warn him or trying not to laugh was unclear. Harry had never seen this one move; it stayed nearly as stationary as an ordinary Muggle picture, as though out of reverence to the memory. Behind this was yet another photo, one of the many given him by the camera-happy Colin Creevey, and looking at it now made Harry's throat constrict as he felt the old, familiar prickling behind his eyes.

It was a picture of the farewell feast in his fourth year, when a combination of Peeves and some very interesting beans had contrived to start the biggest food fight in Hogwarts history. Zooming in and out of it were various students with armloads of food, but two figures stayed fairly consistently where they were. One of them was easily recognizable as himself, a skinny fourteen-year-old with untidy hair and the same round glasses he wore now, but it was the other one that always brought a sort of ache to his heart. 

That other was a woman, a short, scrawny little woman of perhaps thirty-five, wearing black robes that were a shade too large for her and carrying a gnarled, highly polished wooden cane. Her long hair was black like his, but far more wispy and flyaway than even Professor Sprout's had ever been, and streaked with premature silver, and her strangely slanted eyes were an even brighter green than his. This was Professor Lorna Doors, his father's elder sister and Hogwarts' Herbology teacher of two years, who had filled the lives of nearly everyone at the school with a wonderful, unpredictable anarchy, and been the closest thing to a mother Harry had ever known. 

It would have been her summer to have him this year, according to the bizarre custody arrangements she and Sirius had worked out. He would be in Ireland right now, chasing leprechauns and fairies and helping Doors do whatever it was she did during the holidays, and anticipating all the interesting pranks she and Sirius would pull when the term started again--for Sirius was a teacher, too, though he'd only started the year before. They'd had loads of fun, the three of them, for the better part of the term; they and Lupin and the Weasleys, generally wreaking havoc wherever they could, without a care in the world.

Harry should have known it was all too good to last.

Sirius wasn't the only new teacher that year; several positions had been taken over by newcomers, but one in particular stood out then as now. Her name was Joanna Starling, and she was the incredibly beautiful Ancient Runes instructor who had captured the attention of most of the males at Hogwarts. Harry himself had taken something of a liking to her, though not nearly so much as Ron, who turned into a gibbering klutz at the mere mention of her name. As for Professor Snape--well, he would have been the butt of jokes for years to come, had not the true identity of Joanna Starling been too horrible for most to speak of. 

It had been considered a given, that Snape would work up the nerve to propose to her sooner or later, and as Fate (and the Weasleys) would have it, most of the school was present when he was supposedly going to. Starling, however, had chosen that wonderfully propitious moment to reveal her true identity as a transvestital Lord Voldemort, and things had gone downhill from there. Half of Hogwarts had fled into the Forbidden Forest, and the other half raced about the grounds until Doors got her act together and blew the whole school to smithereens, before siccing a veritable army of Cornish pixies on Voldielocks and hauling Harry off into the Forbidden Forest himself. It had looked like the whole affair was in the bag, and they might just be able to defeat Lord Voldemort after all.

And then they let the Phantoms loose.

Harry, Sirius, and Lupin had trusted Doors, despite their fear of her plan, and indeed it would have worked, had not Lord Voldemort managed to wreck all and rebound Doors's spell at the last moment, causing all hell to break loose. The Phantoms and a large portion of the Forbidden Forest were destroyed, but miraculously nearly everyone survived uninjured. Nearly, but not all of them. Lorna Doors had died.

Standing in the glimmering darkness of his room, Harry could still recall in perfect detail regaining consciousness after the.....accident. He had found his aunt, trapped amid a tangled wrack of rubble, and there held her hand until she was gone. And though she had promised to watch over him, though her 'funeral' was as perfectly disastrous as she could wish for, though Harry would swear he had felt her presence every now and then, there were times when he still missed her as horribly as though her death were only yesterday.

This wasn't the first time he had woken to fight back tears in the middle of the night; Sirius had found him thus quite often at the start of summer, and had done his best to find words of comfort. His mourning had grown less of late, and was confined only to the night, but he was by no means the only one suffering from it--several times, Harry had heard Sirius do exactly what he was doing now, though he never said anything.

He shook his head, telling himself for the thousandth time that grieving did no one any good, and started for the window once more when two noises stopped him.

One he knew well; it was the fluttering of his owl, Hedwig, returning with yet another letter from Hermione. The other one, however, was a complete mystery; it sounded as though someone were trying to scratch their way through the back door. Kicking the soggy tissues off his foot, Harry tiptoed over to the window and peered cautiously out, wondering what sort of strange creature Fred and George had loosed on him now.

"What the......?"

Clawing at the door below him was not an animal, but a person, a man dressed in black and carrying a large bundle in his arms. Harry could hear Sirius moving downstairs, apparently wondering what was up, too. He studied hard the top of the intruder's head, shining in the moonlight, and his eyes widened.

"No way," he muttered, squinting through his glasses. "Professor Lupin?"

The man didn't look up, but Harry heard the squeak of the door being opened, and low words exchanged between Sirius and the man who looked suspiciously like Lupin. Sirius's hand gestured to the bundle, and Lupin shifted its weight in his arms so Sirius could draw back a fold of the cloth. The two stood with their heads together a moment, but Harry couldn't see what they were looking at, and a moment later both entered the house and shut the door.

Harry stood a moment, utterly bewildered. Whoever their prowler was, Sirius had obviously been expecting him, but why hadn't he said anything to Harry about it? There was little he didn't tell his godson, and it wasn't as though they hadn't had all sorts of bizarre nocturnal visitors already this summer. And what on earth was Lupin doing here, if indeed that was Lupin, on the night of a full moon? Even the Wolfsbane Potion didn't stop him transforming........

A loud clunk sounded downstairs, and a sudden, "Shhh!" from Sirius. He murmured something to the other man, but Harry couldn't hear what, so he tiptoed as quietly as he could across his room and out into the hallway, mindful of the creaky board down the center.

"--doesn't know what we're doing, and now certainly isn't the time for him to find out," whispered Sirius, shifting one of the kitchen chairs.

"I don't see why you haven't told him, Sirius," responded a voice that was most definitely Lupin's. By the sound of it, he was rummaging in a bag for something.

Sirius sighed. "I would have, but if it......if we try this and it doesn't work, it would only make things worse for him. Better we succeeded and told him later, than fail with him watching." He was quiet a moment, apparently lost in thought. 

Harry stood silent as well, wondering just what on earth they were talking about. Sirius had never kept any major secrets from him, and whatever this was, it sounded big. He had half a mind to go barging into the kitchen and see for himself, when Lupin said something that could only be taken as odd.

"I wonder, will she want to come back?"

Sirius sighed once more, but this time Harry could sense a smile along with it. "Want to? Remus, what with all that's been going on in Ireland, what with all that _will_ be going on soon, it's a wonder she hasn't found a way back on her own before now."

Lupin laughed softly. "Well then....shall we?"

"I believe we shall."

There came once more a shuffling noise, and Harry shivered with cold dread as he realized just what it was they were trying to do. Sirius had to be a little crazier than he'd thought.....No magic could bring back the dead, even he knew that, and Doors was not only very dead, he was quite certain she'd been cremated after her funeral. What on earth had Lupin found, that he would even dare try such a thing? And HOW had he managed to find Doors's body (he was assuming that was what the bundle was) if she'd been cremated? The whole thing was bewildering, but Harry had a feeling it wouldn't be for long. On the other side of the door, Sirius and Lupin had begun to whisper.

Harry leaned forward, his ears straining as he tried to catch something of their chant, but the door was solid oak. He held his breath, waiting for a flash of light, some grand herald that a soul was being returned to the earth, but in that he was sorely disappointed--the closest thing to a herald came quite suddenly in the form of one great, violent sneeze, followed by a thud and a string of cursing that would have made Lucius Malfoy blush scarlet.

It might not have been much of sign, but it was sufficient to startle Harry into leaning a bit harder on the kitchen door than he should have, with the result that he, a coat rack, and a misplaced chair went tumbling with a crash onto the flagstone floor.

For a moment he lay, dazed and winded, before he became aware of both Lupin and Sirius chuckling quietly.

"I could have told you you couldn't keep a secret from that boy," said Lupin. "He's far too much like James."

Sirius stood and pulled Harry to his feet, dusting off the shoulders of his bathrobe and flicking a dustbunnie from his ear. "Yes, well, Harry, as I'm sure you've heard all that just transpired in here, and, well--" he swept his arm in a gesture to the shadows behind him "--say hello to your aunt."

Despite the fact that he had known what his godfather and Lupin were up to, seeing his aunt Lorna again came as rather a shock, to say the least. She was half-crouched in the corner, still sneezing violently and slapping at a strange powder on her sleeves. Harry stared at her for a long moment, before she finally glanced up at him.

"Oh, comb od, Harry," she said thickly, sneezing one last time and wiping her nose on her sleeve. "Quit gawking at me like I'm Nearly Headless Nick and give me a hug already."

Harry, hardly aware that his feet were moving, shuffled across the kitchen and threw his arms around his aunt, who gagged and coughed but returned the embrace all the same.

"Easy there, easy," she said, wincing and patting her ribs. "I've been dead a while, you know. It's not easy readjusting."

Harry quickly let her go, still staring at her as though he thought she might vanish if he blinked (which he did.) "But....how--?" He started to turn back to Sirius and Lupin, but the former clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed.

"Harry, trust me, you're going to find out a sight more than you wanted to about reanimating the dead before this year is out," he said, gazing down at his godson. "You and all of us."

Doors, still brushing at her sleeves, grinned suddenly. "So I'm right in assuming I'm not the only person you two plan on--er--returning to this plane of existence?" she asked. "And you'd be better off putting it that way, rather than having people think you're pulling a Silversleeves."

Both Sirius and Lupin gave an involuntary shudder.

"Silversleeves?" Harry croaked, still too shocked to actually register a word they were saying.

"Dyonisius Silversleeves," said Lupin, rising from his chair and looking as though nothing at all were out of the ordinary. "He was the first wizard to ever seriously dabble in magical resurrection. Devoted years of research to the art of reanimating the dead, using old Egyptian books and the like."

"And it worked?" said Harry, thinking vaguely that for once he might be able to prove Hermione wrong.

"Well, sort of," said Sirius, brushing more of the strange powder that adorned Doors's sleeves off the table. "He certainly _reanimated_ them, in the sense that they walked and talked and breathed, but.......well, it wasn't THEM he brought back."

"Then.........what was it?" asked Harry, not really wanting to know.

"No one's quite clear on that," returned Sirius, wiping his hand on his bathrobe. "Seeing as whatever it was wasted little time in killing Silversleeves and all his laboratory workers, before going berserk and killing one another as well. Only one person escaped, a small apprentice named O'Lenihan, and it's because of him that all such resurrection attempts were internationally banned--Lorna, what _are_ you doing?"

Doors was rummaging her way through the kitchen drawers, her over-long sleeves rolled back and dust-covered robes dragging on the floor. "Looking for scissors," she replied, fumbling in the main junk drawer near the sink.

"Well, good God, Lorna, you don't honestly think we keep them in a _drawer_, do you?" said Sirius, sounding thoroughly scandalized. "Look on top of the icebox."

Doors did so accordingly, while Harry sank weak-kneed into a chair, suddenly finding his legs too shaky to support him any longer. This was far, far too much for him to comprehend so swiftly; one moment he was mourning his losses in an attic bedroom, the next he was brought face-to-face with one of the very people he missed the most. He felt like collapsing and running at the same time; he had to do something, make something, tell someone.........The idea of racing up to the Burrow and throwing stones at Ron's window appealed to him, but no sooner had he gotten to his feet than Lupin's voice, sounding quite shocked, broke into his thoughts.

"Lorna, _what on earth are you doing?"_

Harry looked up and saw at once what Lupin meant; Doors had found the kitchen scissors and was in the process of chopping her wispy hair with them. She dropped both hands and scissors at Lupin's outcry and snorted.

"I'm plantin' corn. What's it look like I'm doing?" she asked, nudging the fallen tendrils of flyaway hair with her foot. "This would be a lot easier if I had a mirror, you know."

Sirius stepped forward and snatched the scissors from her hands, looking quite grateful she hadn't had time to get snip-happy. "And just _why_ are you scalping yourself?" he demanded, setting the shears safely out of her reach.

Doors looked rather surprised. "Well, really, Sirius, you don't honestly expect me to keep all this hair once I've got w--"

Sirius clapped a hand over her mouth, glancing nervously around and shaking his head. "Are you out of your mind?! They'll hear you!"

Doors, who was looking distinctly disgruntled and rather as though she'd like to bite her friend's hand, scowled.

"Mfffl flulff leth?" she said crossly, and Sirius hastily removed his hand. "Oh, come on, Mr. Paranoid, no one's going to hear me; hardly anyone even knows about it yet."

"All the more reason to keep it that way," said Sirius, still looking as though the walls had ears. "And anyway, for God's sake don't go getting slice-happy just yet; it's odd enough having you back as it is, and you without all your hair would be a bit too much. I mean, really, Lorna, have you ever given yourself a haircut before?"

Doors opened her mouth to snipe at him, but paused. "You know, I don't think I ever have," she said reflectively. "The last time anybody cut it was about fourteen years ago, when it got caught around the railings of the fence near Scotland Yard."

"Then don't you think you ought to leave it to someone who actually knows what they're doing? And anyhow, you go giving yourself that major of a change, people are going to talk."

"Yeah, I suppose," said Doors, eying the small pile of hair on the floor. She shot Sirius something of an annoyed glare, and added in the tone of an afterthought, "Though I suppose they'd be a little too preoccupied with the fact that I was even ALIVE to notice something like my hair."

Harry, who had been growing steadily more confused as this conversation went on, finally spoke up.

"Sorry, but I have absolutely no idea what you people are talking about," he said, sitting back down as his knees gave way once more.

Doors looked at Sirius, who looked at Lupin, who was rummaging through the cupboard. "And WHY is he still human?" demanded Harry, his head spinning.

"Well, that one I can explain," said Lupin, turning around with his arms full of sugar packets. "I've spent the last few months researching obscure branches of magic in Romania, and I came across a very little-known potion from which the Wolfsbane Potion was derived. It's immensely complicated and many of the ingredients are very rare, but I made it all the same. Finding a body for Lorna could only be done on the full moon, so I rather had to." He set the sugar down on the table, tapped it with his wand, and four cups of peppermint tea appeared.

"And how--how did you do that?" Harry asked, taking a cup and glancing at Doors, who was examining the house plant by the window. She waved her wand, muttered something, and a long, thin creeper trailed its way up the dusty windowsill.

"Yet another unknown spell," sighed Lupin. "Silversleeves discovered it, but his instructions were so convoluted it took me the better part of two months to figure it out." He took a long draw at his tea. "So long as you have some artifact of the deceased, you can draw upon the memory of them as they were at the moment of their death--cuts, scrapes, robes and all. Now, I just happened to have one of Lorna's old projects floating around--" He reached into his pocket and pulled out the remainders of what looked like a super-sized Dungbomb gone slightly wrong "--and so I used it in the spell. Took me long enough to get it right, but as your dear aunt hasn't sprouted antennae or poisonous fangs, I'll assume I did indeed perform it correctly." He shot an puckish look at Doors, who was sitting perched on the counter with her long braid pulled over her shoulder. In the light coming through the window Harry could see the strands of silver among the frizzy wisps had advanced considerably, and her young, mischievous face seemed a bit more weathered than before.

"Oh, don't get all full of yourself just yet," she said, her eyes twinkling green through the dimness. "I could still wind up growing horns like Whatsisname at the Ministry."

The kitchen roared with laughter, but Harry yawned as well; it was nearly three in the morning, and he hadn't exactly gotten to bed early in the first place. His three companions continued to talk long into the night, but Harry didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until Sirius shook him awake, some six hours later. And when he did, Harry knew Dumbledore was wrong--death _wasn't_ the greatest adventure after all. 

Diagon Alley and Other Disasters

"Come on, Harry," Sirius was saying, as Lupin clattered noisily around the kitchen. "We've still got to get to Diagon Alley for your school things."

Harry sleepily raised his head, peeling his cheek off the back of his hand and straightening his glasses. "Wha?" he muttered blearily, wiping a trail of drool off his chin.

"School, Harry," Lupin laughed, setting a pan on the suspiciously clean stove. "You know, that vast stone building where you supposedly receive your education."

"What about it?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. His head was fuzzy and heavy, and he couldn't quite remember just how he'd wound up at the kitchen table--

Doors! Harry sat fully up and looked quickly around, hoping wildly it hadn't all been a dream. "Where's Doors?" he asked, quite awake now.

"Oh, she's around here somewhere," said Sirius, looking somewhat amused. "Last I checked, she was howling over the state of the vegetable garden out back."

Harry's eyes must have gone as round as he thought they had, for Lupin clapped a hand on his shoulder to keep him from racing for the door.

"Not just yet, Harry. Breakfast's ready."

Harry wolfed his bacon and eggs, the morning sunshine pouring through the kitchen window and splashing across everything. Now that his mind wasn't spinning like an overwound top, he realized that he and Ron were due back on the Hogwarts Express the day after tomorrow, and he still hadn't gotten any of the supplies on his list.

Doors came clattering in while he was gulping orange juice, her hands and robes covered with earth and a great wisp of hair sticking out of the top of her braid. "Sirius, I don't know how even you could wind up with a garden that disgusting," she said, wiping her hands on Lupin's back. "You didn't even think to perform a basic Slug Repelling Charm, did you? Your tomatoes are holier than Remus's socks!"

She sat down at the table and snatched a piece of toast, scattering clods of earth over the floor and jogging Harry's elbow. 

"What?" she asked, as Harry stared at her. "Still think I'm going to disappear if you breathe wrong?"

Harry nodded faintly, and Doors threw a thin arm around his shoulders. "Well, I'm not," she smiled, leaning her forehead against his. "Like it or not, I certainly hope I'll be around for a while."

Harry started to grin back at her, but before he could say anything the kitchen door burst open, admitting a freshly scrubbed, polished, and gleeful Ron Weasley, closely followed by Fred, George and Hermione, who must have arrived early. "Come on, Harry, time's wasting!" he said, jangling a bag of something that sounded suspiciously like money. "Mum gave me some extra money to spend, and if we hurry we can still make--"

Ron stopped dead in his tracks, Fred and George slamming to a halt behind him and nearly squashing Hermione. His eyes went rounder than dinner plates, and he paled visibly beneath his freckles. For a moment he just stood, gawking, and then--

"AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!" He and the twins made a mad dive out the door, crashing through a trellis covered in Virginia creeper and landing with a muffled _thud_ in Lupin's pile of old takeout boxes outside the door. Hermione continued staring open-mouthed, until a hand appeared and jerked her out of view by her collar. 

Harry blinked, startled, wondering just what could have--

"Oh, NO," he moaned, fighting back laughter as he glanced at Doors, who had smacked her forehead.

"Something tells I'm going to get that a lot," she said, her eyes twinkling as she shook her head. 

Ron's eyes peeped around the doorjamb. Harry knew the scene must look odd, to say the very least; Sirius still tearing at his bacon; their kitchen halfway clean; Lupin rattling around with two dirty handprints on his back, and Harry sitting calmly over breakfast with his dead aunt.

"What?" he asked, suppressing a snort at Ron's horrified expression. "Aren't you going to have some eggs?"

Hermione's eyes appeared above Ron's, followed by George, then Fred. All blinked blankly at Doors, who grinned and somewhat lazily lobbed a spoonful of jam at them. It hit George square on the forehead, but so stunned was he that he didn't seem to notice.

Hermione made a gagging noise.

"Oh, get in here, the lot of you," Harry sighed, as a blob of jam dripped off George's noise onto Hermione's head. Without a word the four complied, standing rather uncertainly near the door, as though determined to keep an exit nearby. Exasperated, Harry flicked his wand and the door slammed shut behind them. Ron jumped.

"All right, you guys, believe it or not we _can_ explain this," he said, buttering some toast. "Or, well, they can."

He watched on in amusement as Sirius launched into his spiel, while Doors shook silently with laughter and Lupin kept coughing into his sleeve. His friends' astonished faces were enough to crack anyone up, and by the time Sirius had finished, Harry was choking into his napkin.

"So....that's it?" croaked Hermione, still looking stunned. "P-Professor Doors is back for good?" Sirius nodded.

"Well, okay, then," said Fred, grabbing a piece of toast and using it to scrape the jam off George's forehead. "Good to have you back, Professor. Almost wish I was still in school to see the horrors this year."

Sirius and Lupin exchanged meaningful glances, but said nothing.

"Well, anyhow," said George, after a puzzled glance at both of them. "We came down here to get Harry. We're on our way to Diagon Alley, as Ron was saying before he decided to send us all for a little flight. Mum's given he and Ginny some extra money, so Fred and I thought we'd go along and, er, supervise their spending." Ron snorted.

"Where is Ginny?" Harry asked, realizing that she hadn't tumbled through the door with the rest of the horde..

"Percy had a cold," Ron said, shivering. "Need I say more? She'll be down in a minute; last we saw of her, she was trying to force some potion or other down Percy's throat." He drained a mug of orange juice. "Say, Professor," he said, turning to Doors. "You want to come along with us and scare the bejeebies out of everyone?"

"Bejeebies?" Doors said, raising her eyebrows. "Honey, you've been around your mother too long. Nah, I'd better stay put and leave the shocking for when we get to Hogwarts."

The twins snickered, and Harry raced to get dressed, flinging on a set of too-short robes and clattering about in search of his shoes.

As he dug under his bed for another sock, Hedwig soared in through his window, a dead mouse in her beak. She landed on his dresser and hooted sleepily. 

"Hedwig," he said, lacing up a worn sneaker. "I know I've said this before, but it's been a VERY weird night."

****

He, Hermione, and the Weasleys arrived in Diagon Alley about half an hour later, having forcefully pried Ginny from her somewhat ungrateful patient. Harry and Hermione headed off to Gringotts while Fred and George worked their mojo on their hapless siblings.

"Mrs. Weasley's going to kill them," said Hermione, as she and Harry made their way down the steps outside the snow-white building, their bags filled with clanking coins. They had just spotted Ron dragging a very irate Ginny away from Madam Malkin's, where she had apparently, if Ron's shouts were any indication, just spent half her money on a set of extremely fancy dress robes. 

"We need dress robes?" said Harry, realizing that he still had yet to actually look at his school list. He pulled the piece of paper out of his pocket, and sure enough, down at the bottom it read _'Dress robes are required for all pupils, as the school will be hosting several formal ceremonies over the course of the year.'_

"Huh," said Harry, bemused. "Wonder what that means?"

"I don't know," responded Hermione, looking over hers as well. "You mean Sirius didn't tell you?"

"Not a word," said Harry. They had caught up to Ron and the twins, who were trying to drag him back inside to try on dress robes of his own. 

Harry shook his head and distracted them by mentioning that Ginny might want to pick up some extra Potions equipment, if she was planning on studying with Madam Pomfrey this year. Both twins shot him withering glares, but Ginny had dragged them off before they could curse him for it.

"Thanks," sighed Ron, wiping his forehead. "Knowing those two, I'd wind up with something that looked like it came out of Peeves's wardrobe."

Harry and Hermione laughed, and the three headed in to brave the horrors of formal clothing.

The shop was packed; Harry slammed right into Parvati Patil and nearly knocked Lavender Brown into a rack of buttons. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas were leaning against the wall near him, watching the chaos with amused looks on their faces, but the rest of the house seemed ready to start ripping throats if they didn't get some service soon. Harry spotted poor Madam Malkin through the press, her mouth full of pins and looking very frazzled as she did up Padma Patil's robes.

"What on earth is going on here?" demanded Hermione, staring at the chaos with her mouth open. 

"Haven't you heard?" asked Dean, snickering. Hermione shook her head.

"Ernie MacMillan says his cousin knows just why we've all got to get dress robes and stuff," put in Seamus, his face reddening under his freckles. Harry got the distinct impression he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"And?" said Harry, not really sure he wanted to know.

Dean and Seamus looked at each other. "Well, we're not sure we really believe it," Dean said after a moment. "But according to Ernie, one of the professors is getting married this year."

Harry gaped. "W-_What?"_ he said, flabbergasted. "Who?"

Seamus shrugged. "Don't know. Ernie just heard that's what it was, and really, why else would we all need formal clothing? Dean's taking bets on who it'll be, but nobody knows for sure."

Harry and Hermione looked at one another, wearing identical looks of shock. "Wow," he said, understanding why Seamus wanted to laugh--the idea of any of their professors tying the knot was more than enough to make one chuckle. "Maybe that's what Sirius was talking about last night."

Seamus looked interested. "Huh?"

Harry hurriedly tread on Hermione's foot, warning her not to say anything, and said, "He kept talking like something big was going on this year, but he wouldn't say what. If that's really what it is, though, no wonder he wouldn't spill the beans. He'd want the shock value to stay as fresh as possible."

Dean snorted. "Too late," he said. "I think the crowd's thinning a little; maybe we should try and find something before all the good stuff's taken." He and Seamus pressed into the throng, leaving Harry and Hermione to process this new information.

"Wonder who it is?" mused Harry, watching as Dean, head and shoulders taller than most of their classmates, sort of swam through the crowd. "I mean, I seriously can't see any of our teachers having any sort of a social life....."

Ron waded over to them, clutching a lumpy, paper-wrapped package and looking harassed. "I'm getting out of here," he said, stumbling as a younger boy slammed into him. "I'll meet you outside, all right?"

Harry nodded, and he and Hermione split up to corner different assistants. 

It wasn't easy. By the time Harry had actually managed to nab a seamstress, half the robes in the whole shop were gone, and he had to get a set of blue-green ones downsized about four sizes to fit him. He paid quickly, leaving the poor woman a fairly ample tip, and bumped into Hermione on his way out the door.

"Good Lord, what a madhouse," she said, blowing a strand of hair from her red face. "How'd you do?"

Harry held up his package, which had been tied with a length of hem facing. "Good enough. Had to get them shrunk a bit, but I suppose they'll do." He pointed at Hermione's parcel. "You?"

"Not bad, actually. Cost me enough, but at least I didn't wind up like Hannah Abbott. I ran into her on my way from the changing room, and she'd picked out some dreadful frilly pink thing that looked like an overdone doily."

Harry laughed, and the two of them rounded the corner to find Ron sitting at a table at Florean Flortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, wolfing his way through a hot-fudge sundae and smearing chocolate all over his nose.

"Ron, it's ten in the morning!" cried Hermione, aghast. "Couldn't you at least wait until lunch?"

Ron belched. "Nope," he said, licking the saucer and leaving his tab on the table. "Come on, let's get to Flourish and Blotts."

The three moved on, Hermione muttering darkly about poor nutrition until Ron called her Poppy Junior, at which point she abandoned her dignity and delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs. The two continued quibbling until they had reached the bookstore, where they found Ginny still poring over herbals and old medical books, despite Fred and George's attempts to draw her off elsewhere.

"Don't make eye contact," Ron muttered, as the three shuffled past. Each grabbed a copy of _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six _before consulting their lists again and heading off in different directions. 

The shop was somewhat dusty, and by the time Harry had collected all his books he was coated in a fine powder and sneezing violently.

"Ag," he muttered, as he paid at the counter. "Now I remember why I always avoid the library. I'm allergic to books." He glanced at Hermione, who was loaded down with even more bags than she'd been in their third year, when she tried taking every course Hogwarts had to offer. "What gives?" he asked her, pointing.

"Oh, these? Well, they cancelled the N.E.W.T.s last year, so I'm sure we'll be taking them this year instead....I just want to be prepared."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Hermione, if anyone in all Hogwarts is ready for the N.E.W.Ts, you are," he said, checking the coast to see if Ginny was hanging around. The three darted quickly out the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Where to now?" Harry asked.

The trio wandered through the apothecary and Magical Menagerie (Crookshanks had fleas, so Hermione stopped in for a shampoo), and Harry and Ron dragged Hermione through Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they ran into Fred, George, and Ginny once more. The latter had her nose buried in some thick medical volume, while the twins watched Seamus Finnigan pile gold on the counter.

"Where'd you get all that?" demanded Ron, gaping, as the shopkeeper handed Seamus a neatly wrapped broomstick box.

"I got a job," Seamus answered proudly. "Me dad paid me to be mail boy in his office, and I changed it all in at Gringotts for this beauty." He patted the box, which read _Nimbus Two Thousand and Three _on it. "Not a Firebolt, but I could work for about nine years and still not afford one of those things." He glanced out the window, to where his mother stood waving impatiently. "Ack, I've got to go. See you all at Hogwarts." He waved and was gone.

"Wish I'd had a job," grumbled Ron, rummaging around for his money bag. "Then I could have gotten this a couple years ago and still had a chance at the House Quidditch team." 

Harry stared at him as he plunked the bag on the counter, then realized Ron still hadn't spent any of his extra money. He had quite a lot still in the purse, and apart from wondering where on earth the Weasleys had gotten so much extra money, he wanted to know just what Ron planned to do with it.

"I've been wanting one of these since first year," said Ron gleefully, taking a gleaming Nimbus Two Thousand off the rack and laying it reverently on the counter. "They've made some modifications since then, of course, so it's a bit faster and steadier than the old series, and now I've finally got a decent broomstick." Hermione goggled as he paid the cashier about forty Galleons and shoved what was left back into the bag. Without waiting for she and Harry to retrieve their jaws, he bounded from the shop and into the street. 

The three wandered about the alley all day, until late afternoon rolled around and they realized the twins and Ginny were long gone. Everywhere they went, they were held up by classmates swapping rumors about the wedding, which was now apparently a verifiable fact.

"I just know it's McGonagall--she's finally realized she needs a man," gushed a Hufflepuff third year in the sweet shop.

"Not a chance," laughed Ernie MacMillan. As the conveyer of the wild rumor, he was more than enjoying his time in the spotlight. "MCGONAGALL? She's an old maid if there ever was one."

"_I_ bet it's Professor Black," Mandy Brocklehurst, a Ravenclaw sixth year, sighed dreamily. "He had to get taken sooner or later."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all snorted into their tankards of cider. They wheeled round on Mandy, who went beet-red at the sight of them and made a mad dash for the restroom.

Colin and Denis Creevey, who had been sitting near Mandy, both waved excitedly when they caught sight of Harry. "Hey! Harry! Hi! Who do YOU think it is, Harry?" Colin squeaked breathlessly.

Harry fought back a sigh. "I don't know, Colin," he said. "Not a clue. I do know it's not Sirius, though." He and Ron both snickered, tucking Mandy's little tidbit away to torment Sirius with later.

"What about him and your aunt, Harry? Wouldn't they have made a good pair?" piped Denis, in an even squeakier voice than Colin. No sooner had he said it than his face fell, and Colin kicked him sharply.

"I-I'm awfully sorry, Harry, I just forg--"

To both the Creeveys' intense surprise, Harry, Ron, and Hermione all exploded into gales of laughter, tears streaming down their faces. The shop was crowded and noisy, and so only the Creeveys stared at them, open mouthed. Their very nervous-looking Muggle father called them off before the could gather their wits and demand an explanation, leaving the three to gasp for air until they could speak again.

"You know they're going to think you're crackers now," chucked Ron, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Laughing when Doors is supposed to be dead, it looks like you've gone round the bend for sure."

"Well, it won't for long," put in Hermione, chortling herself. "I mean, she is going back to Hogwarts with us, right? She said something about shocking everyone at the school."

Harry paid, and the three of them made their way down the long cobbled street to the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, where the could safely Floo home. 

The sun was slanting westward by the time they trundled up to the Burrow to drop off Ron and Hermione's things. Fred and George popped out, to tell them that Mrs. Weasley didn't know about either of the you-know-whats yet, and to keep their mouths shut. The trio wisely mentioned nothing, and made their way down the grassy slope to Harry's cottage wondering just what Doors would have done to the place.

The answer became immediately apparent when they entered the clearing, and found the entire shabby surface of the cottage covered in a tangled, leafy vine. Smoke was rising from the chimney, and from inside the house there came a terrific crash as something very big made contact with the floor.

Harry stopped, glancing askance at the now unfamiliar dwelling and wondering vaguely if they weren't all reliving their Marauder days in there. Hermione grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

They checked again on the threshold of the kitchen door, gawking. Not only could they actually see the counter (more or less--it was still littered with papers), Doors and Lupin appeared to be viciously dismembering the shelving in the sitting room. Sirius was nowhere to be seen, but if the splashing sounds on the second floor were any indication, he was actually attempting to do some laundry.

Harry gawked. "W-Wow," he stammered, taking in the newfound semi-cleanliness with round eyes. "I thought you'd do some damage, Doors, but this....." He trailed off.

Doors grinned at him, a wisp of silver-threaded frizz dangling in her face. "What, you think this was my idea? Good God no, honey, this whole insanity is Remus's doing. He always was a tidy little boy......Of course, it could have just seemed that way because he shared a room with James and Sirius..." She broke off and made a perfectly killing oinking noise.

Harry laughed; upstairs, a heavy thud sounded, followed by a splash and a string of curses. "I heard that!" Sirius called crossly.

"Good for you," Doors shot back, narrowly missing Lupin's head with a shelf. "It would have been wasted if you hadn't."

Even Hermione snickered, and Ron started coughing very hard into his sleeve. "So, what exactly are you going to do with all this wood?" he asked, as Lupin zapped at the joists on one end and effectively collapsed the frame.

"That would be a question better posed to Sirius," he said, whisking the lumber into a neat pile in the corner of the room. "Disassembling the shelves was his idea. I've no clue why, unless he wants to get rid of that wall."

Ron shrugged, but Harry was watching his aunt. Something was different about her (well, besides the fact that she was alive), but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.....

"Hey," he said suddenly. "You don't need your cane any more."

Doors glanced up, absently hopping over the broom Lupin had set to sweeping the floor. "Nope," she cheerfully affirmed. "Thank God, too; I'd probably kill myself if I came back and still needed that damn thing."

"But...I thought that spell or whatever it was returned you exactly as you had been," said Harry in confusion. "What gives?"

"I made a few modifications," Lupin put in, flicking the broom to a halt. "I knew Lorna would kill _me _if I brought her back still--er--handicapped."

"Wise lad," Doors said, throwing her arm around Lupin's neck and catching him in a loose but inescapable headlock. "Otherwise I'd have to try that trick Sirius always used to use on Peter."

"Please don't," grimaced Lupin. Harry got the distinct impression he was trying not to laugh. "I'd like to keep the blood flowing to my brain, thanks."

Doors released him. "Party pooper," she said, glancing at the ceiling as there came yet another crash from above. "What is he DOING up there?"

Harry shook his head. "Not sure I want to know," he said. "But there is something I _do_ want to know, and that's is there any truth to this wedding rumor that was flying around Diagon Alley? Ernie MacMillan started it, but as all of you are teachers, you'd know if anyone would."

Doors and Lupin looked at one another. "Hoo boy," muttered the former, her bizarre voice taking on such a dismal inflection that all of them fought back a snort of laughter. "You want to do the honors, Remus?"

Lupin sighed. "Not really, but I somehow don't think that matters," he said mildly. "Yes, Harry, the rumor, for what it's worth, is accurate, but truthfully we don't know much more than you do. However...." He trailed off.

"However," continued Doors, as Lupin turned away to hide a small smile. "Given what we do know, I'm not really sure we _want_ to find out the rest of it." She glanced at the ceiling as another thud shook the house, followed by a terrific splash and an indignant hooting that could only be Hedwig.

"Anyhow," she went on. "The wedding's due this Christmas, and we have the groom, at least, confirmed--"

Lupin snorted into his hand.

"This oughta be good," muttered Ron. Hermione kicked him.

"Oh, it is," Doors said, her eyes twinkling. "The groom happens to be one of your former Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, one, um, whatsisname..."

Harry paled. "Oh, you DON'T mean--" he started.

"--Gilderoy Lockhart," Lupin finished, watching their stunned faces with amusement.

Dead silence, broken only by Sirius's muted curses, fell.

"Eeep," muttered Ron.

There was a loud thumping on the stairs, and a moment later Sirius, covered in soapsuds and odd socks, appeared in the doorway. He didn't look pleased. 

"Lorna," he said, twitching a strand of dripping hair from his eyes. "I don't know just what sort of spell you gave me, but right now I've got an army of pillowcases leading a war against Harry's owl." A sock fell off his shoulder and landed with a squelch.

The two adults exploded into laughter, and shook hands to congratulate one another.

"Smashing idea, old bean," Doors said, chuckling.

"Some things never change," Sirius grumbled darkly, sloshing back up the stairs and losing another sock along the way.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still gawking. "Lockhart," Harry murmured, thunderstruck. "Who on earth would marry LOCKHART? He doesn't even know who he is, for crying out loud!"

"Greater mysteries await," said Lupin, glancing at the clock over the mantelpiece. "And I dare say we'll find out soon enough. Now come on, all of you, it's time we ate something before Sirius decides to drown us all. You three still have an extra day, but he and I have to catch the early train back to Hogwarts tomorrow to set up."

"What about Doors?" Harry asked, as they filed into the kitchen. 

"Harry, you're forgetting: As far as the rest of the wizarding world is concerned, Lorna here is dead." Lupin grinned suddenly, mild but very knowing grin that made Ron and Hermione glance at one another and gulp. "Oh, I can't wait to see the look on everyone's faces when she turns up very much alive on Monday."

Harry grinned as well--the thought had crossed his mind, and suddenly, he couldn't wait for the start of term. In the span of one day his whole life had been flipped upside down yet again, leaving him somewhat disoriented but otherwise all right. And, he considered, as Sirius came splatting into the kitchen, that was not at all a bad thing.

The Surprise

"Harry."

"Mmm."

"_Harry_."

"Mmmm."

"HARRY!"

"AGH!"

Harry tumbled from his cot, landing with a dull thud and a nasty crunch on the floor of Ron's room, Hermione still yelling in his ear.

"All right, all right, I'm up," he mumbled blearily, rubbing his eyes. Hermione stood back, apparently satisfied, and left the room shouting something about socks to Ginny.

Once reasonably certain she wasn't coming back, Harry let his head flop to the floor, groaning. It seemed he'd only just gotten to sleep, but according to the wheezing clock on Ron's wall, it was already a quarter to six.

"Good morning to you, too," he muttered, feeling blindly for his glasses. Faint, very grey light was shining through Ron's window, the sky outside still dotted with stars and not a sound to be heard for miles.

"RON!"

Harry winced; Mrs. Weasley's bellow carried through the house like a foghorn. A muffled thump from the closet was followed shortly by Ron, covered in dust and looking distinctly disgruntled. He poked his head, still bearing an admirable collection of lint, out the door and yelled, "What?"

"Make sure Harry's up, you've still got to eat breakfast!"

Ron groaned, his shoulders slumping in their maroon pajamas. "Mum, we've still got an hour and a half before we even have to leave!"

"Oh, no we don't! Now hurry it up, both of you!"

Ron sighed and slid down the doorjamb, yawning. "You heard her, Harry," he said. "She's gone starkers, but there you are."

Harry made an indistinct gagging noise, but rose to his feet just the same. After digging about for clothes and socks, he wandered sleepily down the creaking staircase and into the Weasleys' kitchen.

Ginny and Hermione were already seated at it, nursing down pieces of toast, and so, to Harry's displeasure, was Percy. He had apparently gotten over his cold, for he was treating both girls to a deadly dull lecture about "the office" that likely would have put Professor Binns to sleep.

"Morning, all," Harry sad, but way of interruption, before settling down between Hermione and Ron's empty plate and reaching for the sausages.

Percy set down his tea and coughed. "Good morning, Harry," he said, in a oddly formal sort of voice. "I trust you slept well?"

"Mmm," Harry said, closing his eyes as he downed a long draught of hot cider--far from waking him up, as he'd hoped, it made him sleepier than ever, and his head drooped dangerously near the porridge pot before he snapped out of it.

It was swiftly turning into a gray, irritable sort of day. Somber clouds rolled in, obscuring the sunrise and forcing Mrs. Weasley to order a taxi once more. Fred and George popped their heads out the door to see what was causing all the racket, but trooped right back to bed when they caught sight of the clock over the mantelpiece.

Once all their trunks had been stowed (Doors's nearly exploded when the cabbie tried to wedge it in), Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Doors, and Mrs. Weasley all crammed into the taxi, getting covered in orange hair from Crookshanks and growing thoroughly cheesed off in the process. Ginny, who was jammed in like a sardine between Harry and Hermione, kept jostling them both with the sharp edges of her book (_1000 Medical Miracles_), and Pigwidgeon was making such a racket that Ron pulled him out of his cage and stuffed a sock in his beak.

All in all, it wasn't a happy group that wandered into King's Cross, in the dim morning light well before anyone else had arrived. The guard cast them a curious glance as Mrs. Weasley bustled to get them carts. He stared particularly at Ron, for it wasn't every day one saw an owl the size of a pigeon with a sock over its head.

Mrs. Weasley pried Ginny's nose out of her book.

"All right," she said. "We're going to take this one at a time at first, so we don't give that old Muggle a heart attack. Ron, you've got Pigwidgeon, you go first."

Ron pushed his cart forward until it touched the wall, and leaned unconcernedly against it. He disappeared quite suddenly, and Mrs. Weasley made them wait another five minutes before letting Ginny through.

Harry and Doors went through together, chatting easily until Platform Nine and Three-Quarters materialized around them.

Harry had never seen it so deserted. Unlike the Muggle platforms, it wasn't littered with paper and bits of refuse, but it did have an odd assortment of benches and a Gringotts cash machine. The Hogwarts Express, as big and scarlet as ever, stood beside it, puffing gently into the dawn. 

"Everybody on!" called Doors, shoving the door of the last compartment open with a creak. "Ginny, honey, you can read to your heart's content once we're all aboard, but we need your help now." Without waiting for Ginny to respond, she heaved Harry's trunk off the cart and nearly dropped it on the girl's toes. Within ten minutes, all their belongings were stashed in their traditional compartment, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were bundled up in all their Hogwarts robes and cloaks, fighting off sleep.

Mrs. Weasley bustled in, checking trunks and other last-minute arrangements. She hugged each of them in turn, and deposited a neatly-wrapped sandwich into each pair of hands.

"You be good, now," she warned Harry and Ron. "Don't think you have to go making up for the twins' absence this year. Hopefully you'll even manage to learn something now."

"Oh, I doubt it." Doors had appeared behind Mrs. Weasley, her arms crossed and a grin on her face. "After all, if things go correctly, half the Hogwarts alumni will be returning, in which case nobody will be learning much of anything."

Mrs. Weasley jumped, then rolled her eyes; she'd only found out the day before about Doors's returned existence, and to say it had been a shock would be to state the case as mildly as may be. "Well, I at least hope they behave themselves, for Hogwarts' sake if nothing else. We wouldn't want the Daily Prophet digging up unpleasant things to feed that revolting Skeeter woman." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, dear, the cabman's waiting. Have a good term, all of you." She planted a kiss on each of the childrens' foreheads, hugged Doors, and hurried out to brave the Muggle world to get home.

Ron yawned. "Well, g'night,' he said, collapsing onto an empty seat. He was snoring before he hit the fabric.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron wasn't the only one who needed to sleep--Harry's eyelids felt like lead, and it wasn't long before he too lay curled up in a corner, falling into bacon-induced dreams.

It was the movement of the train that woke him. He sat up, squinting at the glaring light that flooded the compartment. A glance out the window showed him the sun was breaking through in places, landing on neat green fields dotted with sheep. He realized with a start that the train must have been going for at least an hour already, and he'd slept right through the noise of boarding and departure.

He wasn't the only one--Ron was still sprawled over one whole length of seats, Ginny was curled up on the luggage rack, and Doors lay snoozing in the sunlight across the back of Hermione's seat. Hermione herself was deeply immersed in a spellbook the size of a paving slab, one of the ones that used to decorate the window at Flourish and Blotts, with Crookshanks curled contentedly in her lap.

She glanced up. "About time you woke up, we've been on our way for hours. The food cart's come and gone about three times already. I finally told the witch you'd all died."

"Food cart?" All Harry's sleepiness vanished at once, as he realized just how hungry he was. He scrabbled through his trunk for some gold, knocking Pigwidgeon's cage over in the process. Whatever Doors had done to him hadn't worn off yet, however, for he stayed as fast asleep as his owner.

"You want anything?" he asked Hermione, as he fought his way to the door. She shook her head.

"All right." After tripping over Ginny's forgotten medical book, Harry finally managed to wrench the door open and stumble into the hallway--

--where he ran smack into Malfoy.

"Really, Potter, do watch where you're going," he said, surveying Harry with cold grey eyes. He had grown considerably over the summer, and now stood a good half head taller than Harry.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, easing the compartment door shut. Something was different about Malfoy, something besides his height--and then Harry realized he didn't have Crabbe and Goyle with him.

"Where're the boulders?" he asked.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed, and he snorted with disgust. "Crabbe's got a _girlfriend_," he snarled, his lip curling just the way his father's always did. "He and Goyle have been think up ways to get rid of me all summer."

Harry choked. "Crabbe?" he said, too stunned to be nasty. "Who on Earth would like him?"

Malfoy's expression grew even more murderous; having Harry Potter laugh at him definitely wasn't helping his already short temper. "Millicent Bulstrode," he snapped, glowering as Harry snickered. "And keep your mouth shut about it, Potter, if you know what's good for you."

"Or what, Millicent'll come after me?" Harry snorted, unable to resist. The other boy glared and made to push past him, but at that moment the compartment door slid open and Hermione stuck her head out. "What's that about Millicent Bulstrode?"

The effect this simple sentence had on Malfoy was drastic; his expression immediately softened, and he darted back around Harry so fast he fairly flew.

"M-Millicent?" he said, sweeping something of a clumsy bow. "Nothing, nothing. Er, how are you, Hermione? Been well over the summer?"

A steady flush was rising in Malfoy's pale face, and Hermione's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Fine," she said warily, clearly expecting to be cursed or the like.

Malfoy swallowed, glanced from Hermione to Harry and back again, and plunged on. "Er--Hermione, would you, er, like to, um...." The redness in his face had reached the intensity of a fire siren, and Harry was willing to bet it would have fried an egg if given the chance.

Hermione was staring at him as though he'd lost his mind, while Harry rolled his eyes. Fred and George had put a lovesickness curse on Malfoy in his fourth year--or at least, everyone thought they had--and apparently it still hadn't worn off. Hermione, ever oblivious, though he was slowly losing his marbles, and looking at him now, Harry couldn't blame her.

"Um, yeah, well, what I was trying to say is--" 

Malfoy stopped. His eyes widened and all the color drained from his face, which looked as though he'd just been thrown into ice-cold water. Harry watched him in puzzlement for a moment, until he realized--

"AAAAGGGGGHHHHH!"

Malfoy let out a bloodcurdling scream, that was quickly stifled as Harry, Hermione, and a very bleary-looking Ron all dove at him at once, tackling him to the ground and clamping their hands over his mouth.

"Are you insane?" hissed Hermione, who was effectively pinning him to the carpet. This was not lost on Malfoy, who was blushing beet-red under his panic, but it wasn't enough to keep him from struggling like mad.

"Knock it off!" Hermione snapped, smacking him. She glanced at Ron and Harry, who were holding Malfoy's feet and struggling to get his wand before he did. She jerked her head at the open compartment, where Doors stood, arms crossed, peering out the doorway at them with a smirk on her face.

"That happens a lot around me, doesn't it?" she asked, her eyes twinkling. No sooner had she spoken than Malfoy relaxed--or at least ceased struggling--and settled for staring at her, horrorstruck.

"Mthelpftheth?" he said, his eyes round and a lock of silver-blonde hair falling over his forehead, giving him something of a crazed look.

Doors shook her head. "Draco, honey, come on in here and let me explain. Come on, you three, let him up, he's not gonna bolt."

Reluctantly, the trio let him stand, though Malfoy didn't really look as though he'd mind it if Hermione kept him where he was. Ron and Harry, both gagging, led him into the compartment, and Doors locked them all in. It was a very final sort of sound.

"All right, Draco," she said, in a rather pained voice. "I know I'm not exactly looking my best, but am I really _that_ terrifying?"

Malfoy simply choked, mouthing like a fish out of water and looking as though someone had kicked him in the stomach. He stared at the small professor for a moment, before, to everyone's great surprise, rolling his eyes back into his head and passing out cold.

Doors sighed. "Yeah, I thought so." Motioning Harry to help her, she hauled the unconscious Slytherin up onto Ron's vacated bed, where he let out a strangled whimper but refused to wake. Doors herself collapsed next to him, her head in her hands. "Good Lord, I suppose I'm only going to be in for more of that when I get to Hogwarts," she moaned, but the corners of her mouth were twitching.

"Well, we were sort of counting on it," said Ron, sitting as far as possible from Malfoy and picking up Pigwidgeon's toppled cage. Harry and Hermione joined him, ignoring Ginny, who was still asleep. Hermione picked up her book again, as unconcernedly as though nothing had happened, but her cheeks were faintly pink from exertion.

Doors tried and failed to scowl at Ron, and instead opted for snatching Crookshanks and tickling Ginny's bare feet with his tail. Harry simply shook his head and stared out the window, at a landscape that was growing ever wilder as the train hurtled onward.

How long he did this, he had no idea, but before he knew it, the daylight was fading and the chill of evening had settled on the train. The conductor's voice piped through their compartment, announcing that they would shortly be arriving in Hogsmeade station.

Harry looked around with a start; he hadn't been are time could fly so fast, until he realized he must have fallen asleep again. He glanced around--Malfoy was still unconscious, but from the look of him he'd woken up and struggled at some point. Ginny and Hermione were reading, and Doors and Ron were playing Exploding Snap in the corner.

Ginny and Hermione looked up and stowed their books, and Harry stood and stretched. The chugging clatter of the train was slowing, and the four children made one last check of their trunks.

"What're we going to do with him?" asked Ron, looking down at Malfoy as though he were some sort of sea slug. The pale boy's hair was unusually disheveled, and even unconscious he had a look of vague terror on his face.

"Oh, they always check the train for stragglers," Doors said lightly, brushing back a strand of Malfoy's hair. "Poor Draco, I think I gave him quite a shock."

"Yeah, well, good," said Ron, heading out the door and down the corridor. "Slimy git, he deserves it."

Hermione, clutching Crookshanks in her arms, sniffed..

"You know, you really are rather hard on him," she said, slowing to a halt as they reached the press of people clambering to get off. "I mean, it's fairly obvious he's losing it, and--"

"Oh, Hermione, he's not losing it," Ron snapped. "He's just--"

Ron's words were cut off by a loud slam. Apparently Malfoy had regained his senses, for he tore out of the compartment as though the devil were at his heels. He bowled past Harry and Doors, who had remained in the deserted section of the corridor to avoid the curious crowds, his face white and eyes wide. He ran smack into the mess in the next car, where he promptly began making a fearful racket.

The two glanced at one another, eyebrows raised, and around the corner they heard Hermione sniff again. "You were saying?"

Harry stifled a snort of laughter, and Doors rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, really now--" she started, the corners of her mouth twitching. "I hardly see how--"

"Professor Snape!"

Malfoy had evidently made it through the chaos in record time, for he was barreling along the platform outside their windows, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Professor Snape! Help!"

Doors stopped laughing at once. "Uh-oh," she muttered, going suddenly pale. "That's no good." The small Herbology professor turned and started pelting down the corridor, tripping over her long robes.

"Doors!" Harry caught her by the arm, halting her in her tracks. "Are you mad? You can't just go running down a crowded train, you'll cause a panic!"

Doors sighed. "Really, this is all more trouble than it's worth, I swear," she said, rubbing her eyes. "Go on, Harry, I'll meet you up there." Despite her gloomy expression, there was laughter in her voice, and Harry could tell she was going to enjoy the anarchy her presence would cause as much as he would.

After a mad scramble through the crowd, he finally managed to find Ron and Hermione, still bickering over Malfoy's sanity as they clambered into one of the horseless carriages. They were followed in by Neville, who, Harry noticed with displeasure, had also grown taller than he had. Ron and Hermione shut up at once.

The ride to Hogwarts was fairly uneventful, but Harry couldn't suppress the horde of mad butterflies that tumbled through his stomach every time he thought of the surprise that waited for his classmates. He didn't know just how Doors was planning to get to the school without being noticed, but he wasn't worried--she was, after all, Doors. He wondered what sort of welcome Lupin and Sirius had prepared for her, and if they had even bothered to tell Dumbledore.

The night wasn't exactly a warm one, and it was a thoroughly chilled group of students who disembarked on the shores of the lake. The first years, terrified as ever, shivered their way into the rowboats, and the rest of the crowd collected themselves and continued on foot.

It was with a sigh of utmost relief that Harry and company arrived in the entrance hall--this had to be their coldest arrival yet, with the sky above like frozen black velvet, dotted with chips of ice. Warmth flooded from the open doors, engulfing them all like a lovely blanket and keenly reminding Harry just how hungry he was.

"Mmmm....Heaven," Ron said, his eyes closed and sniffing the air. "Smell that, Harry? It's the smell of home, that is."

Harry rolled his eyes, but before he or Hermione could retort, all three of them were squashed together as the last of the students crammed into the hall. A smattering of black-robed students had trailed up the marble staircase, peering out over the forest of pointed hats in search of their friends. Professor McGonagall, as severe and square-spectacled as always, was directing the throng into the Great Hall, where the familiar four long tables stood laid out with golden plates.

"Food!" cried Ron, nearly bowling Neville over in his rush for the Gryffindor table--the fact that the plates were all empty didn't dissuade him in the slightest.

Harry shook his head, tugging at his collar and drawing a hand over his sweaty forehead. The heat of so many people packed like sardines was unbearable, and seemed all the more so after their chill walk from the carriages. The torches flickered as the crowd moved reluctantly, seemingly more interested in swapping rumors than sitting down.

"See?" gasped Ernie MacMillan, who was having his ribs crushed by a gaggle of second years. "I told you so. McGonagall doesn't exactly look like a blushing bride-to-be, now does she?"

"Well, maybe Mandy's right," said his friend Hannah, who was being shoved about near him. "Maybe it is Professor Black, but I can't think that he'd manage a social life without Harry knowing about it...."

Mandy Brocklehurst, who had been avoiding Harry's eyes since she entered the hall, suddenly burst into snickers.

Harry shook his head and started to wade through the crowds to the Great Hall, but was forced to duck aside as he realized both his shoelaces were untied, and trying to run through a stampede in that condition would be an extremely stupid thing to do. He took shelter behind a large statue of a furtive-looking wizard identified as Aelfwald the Schlepper, tripping over his robes and stumbling through a large quantity of cobwebs.

Quick though he tied them, by the time both his shoes were secure and he was no longer in danger of having they (and his feet) ripped off, the entrance hall had all but emptied. Several panicky and lost-looking second years bolted past him, frantically adjusting their hats.

Harry picked up his wand and started after them, but the sound of two voices made him halt in his tracks, cursing. He darted behind the statue again, extremely anxious that he not be seen--it would lead to some very interesting questions if he was.

Snape and Malfoy were coming down the marble staircase, the latter almost gibbering as he tried to get his story out.

"--S-She's on the train, her and Potter and all them, and they put a curse on me, I only just got away--"

Snape's cold voice, soft and somehow more malevolent than ever, cut him off. He sounded dangerously annoyed. 

"Malfoy, you foolish boy, they've obviously cursed you, but not as you think," he snapped. "Professor Doors--" Harry heard the bitter sneer in his voice as he spat her name; Doors had always been rather a sore point with Snape "--couldn't have been on that train, Malfoy, think logically. She's dead, thank the Lord, and Potter and his friends obviously decided to play a little game with you--"

Malfoy wasn't listening; he'd gone even paler, and was mouthing like a fish out of water. Snape apparently noticed this, for he sighed and took the boy by the shoulders.

"Draco," he said, trying and failing to adopt a paternal tone, "I realize you were somewhat--" a sneer "--fond of Professor Doors, but she's gone now, and I only hope you won't let any unsettled emotions ruin your studies." 

He gently guided Malfoy across the entrance hall, clearly wanting to get him settled without further incident. Malfoy was looking worse off than ever, however, and Harry had to stifle a snort at the look on his face. Somehow he knew (or hoped) the Fates wouldn't let Snape off so easily, and sure enough, he and Malfoy had taken no more than three steps before the snort Harry so wanted to give voice to sounded--from across the hall.

Malfoy jumped and whirled around, and cast one terrified look at the entryway beyond before fainting dead away, hitting ground with a dull thud. Harry clapped his hand over his mouth as Snape too started to turn, but at that moment Lupin came skidding out into the entrance hall.

"Severus, there you are," he said, adjusting his collar. "Dumbledore sent me to find you, the Sorting's nearly started and you need to--I say, what's the matter with him?" He had evidently caught sight of the prostrate Malfoy, who was sprawled in a most undignified manner at Snape's feet.

Snape was looking livid, as though the combination of his fainting pupil and sudden appearance of one of his arch nemeses was more than he wanted to deal with at the moment. He shot Lupin a frigid glare and snapped, "Potter and the Wonder Squad have him convinced Lorna Doors rode here on the Hogwarts Express, and he's worked himself into a fit over it. The little brats probably cursed him."

From behind his statue, Harry could see that Lupin was wearing a very interesting expression indeed--it looked as though he'd only just fought back a snicker. Snape didn't see it; he had glanced down at Malfoy, and by the time his eyes returned to Lupin, the other professor had composed himself.

"Really?" he said, still looking highly amused. "Seems a bit out of character for them, wouldn't you say? Certainly the boy's afraid of something, but do you really think Harry would so desecrate his aunt's memory, just to scare a Slytherin?"

Lupin was too evil--Snape had no response to this, though not for lack of trying; Harry could see his mind working furiously behind the cold black eyes. Someone else, however, evidently did have a retort.

"Well, I should hope not," snorted a voice--an unmistakable, all-too-familiar voice that issued from roughly the same area as the earlier snort that had fixed Malfoy's wagon.

Snape froze. All the color drained from his face, leaving it as pasty and pale as leftover oatmeal. His eyes went rounder than fifty-pence pieces, and slowly--as though he knew just what was behind him, but dreaded it all the same--slowly he turned, wearing a look of such horror that it was all Harry could do to keep from doubling over with laughter. He stood still, waiting for the inevitable--

"AAAAAAAEEEEEEERRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

Snape let out an even more bloodcurdling scream than Malfoy's, spun around, and bolted back up the staircase, so shaken that Harry doubted he could have looked more horrified if he'd caught Voldemort in the shower. He ran smack through the Bloody Baron at the top of the stairs, cast one last glance down at the entrance hall, and pelted for dear life.

Lupin sighed. "Lovely," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Lorna, I suggest you hide until this whole mess is cleared up and Dumbledore's made the announcements. According to Minerva, he's got a real doozy lined up, and it's best if the children don't have you hanging over their heads when he breaks the news."

Doors grinned impishly, apparently much pleased with herself, and hopped up the staircase, disappearing into the shadows while whistling snatches of 'It's a Hard Knock Life'.

Lupin turned to Harry, who was still behind the statue, his face looking worn in the dim torchlight. "And Harry, I don't think it would be very wise for you to be found near an unconscious Draco Malfoy. It might lead to some unpleasant assumptions."

Harry laughed, but before he could think of a way to sneak unnoticed into the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall came storming out. 

"Really, what IS going on out here?" she demanded, straightening her hat. "The children are--"

She stopped. "Oh, dear," she muttered, gazing at Malfoy. "What's happened to him?" She shook her head, apparently not wanting to know. "Never mind. Get Poppy down here to attend to him; Albus still has to make his announcements."

Lupin set off down the corridors, while McGonagall swept back into the Great Hall. Harry darted in after her, keeping low behind the Gryffindor table until he spotted Ron and Hermione. 

"Where've you been?" demanded Ron, as McGonagall resettled herself at the staff table. "And what was all that racket about?"

Harry fiddled with the clasps of his cloak. "Snape ran into dear Doorsie in the entrance hall," he muttered, watching as Lupin hurried back in.

Both Ron and Hermione choked, Hermione looking scandalized and Ron, delighted.

"Oh, NO," said the latter, but before he could continue Dumbledore rose, and smiled at the crowd.

"Good evening," he said, his half-moon glasses flashing over the crowd. "I have a few announcements, before we set to."

"Where's Snape?" someone called from the Slytherin table. 

It might have just been Harry, but he would swear Dumbledore was fighting laughter.

"He'll be down shortly," he said. "In the meantime, it is my duty and great pleasure--" Here Harry was sure of it, their Headmaster was definitely at odds with encroaching glee "--to inform you all that one of your former professors will shortly be celebrating his nuptials at Hogwarts."

"His _what_?" demanded--or, rather, grunted--Crabbe, somewhat loudly.

"His wedding, stupid," Millicent hissed back, just as loudly.

Professor Sinistra coughed into her handkerchief.

Dumbledore continued beaming at them. "Yes, that's right, Miss Bulstrode, his wedding. Our former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart, has been recently engaged and requested that the wedding be held at Hogwarts. The staff and I were more than happy to comply, and hope it brings no inconvenience to any of our pupils."

Though Harry had known that was coming, the rest of the Hall had not, and at the words 'Gilderoy Lockhart' a series of furious whispers broke out across the room. Hannah Abbott, who seemed so talented at doing so, passed out cold. Tension spread like stinging ropes across the tables, as students either gawked with disbelief or fought impending illness.

"You've GOT to be kidding," Seamus Finnigan said, looking pallid under his freckles.

"I assure you, Mr. Finnigan, I am not," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling.

"Who's the unlucky broad?" somebody, who sounded as though he were going to be sick, called.

Professor Sinistra coughed harder.

"Ah, well, most of you will not know the bride, as she is of Muggle descent," said Dumbledore, who was so obviously enjoying himself Harry thought his expression ought to be outlawed. "In fact, she _is_ a Muggle. Her name--"

"Oh, this oughta be good," muttered Dean. Harry coughed as he took a last swig off Ron's bottle of pumpkin juice.

"--is Miss Marjorie Dursley."

"PTHELTHELLTHTTTHH!!!!"

Harry's pumpkin juice was violently expelled across the table, splattering all over Lavender Brown and leaving great orange drips on the white tablecloth. In the silence ensuing Dumbledore's pronunciation the noise was especially loud, and nearly all the Hall craned around to look at Harry, wondering what on earth was up with him now.

"W-_What?_" he demanded, as stunned as though someone had delivered an unexpected and very hard punch to his stomach. "You're JOKING."

"As I just assured Mr. Finnigan, I most certainly am not," Dumbledore smiled. "And I trust you will make them both feel welcome, on this joyous occasion."

He went on to something else, but Harry wasn't listening--he felt rather as though someone had just doused him with a large bucket of ice water. He stared off into space for a long moment, his mind whirling horribly, until he became aware of Ron tugging at his sleeve.

"Harry?" he said, looking worried. "You all right?"

Harry shook his head, his voice mysteriously absent. 

Gilderoy Lockhart and Aunt MARGE? Of all the things that could have happened to him.....Aunt Marge at Hogwarts, what a nightmare that would be, with her barking at him across the Great Hall and making goo-goo eyes at Lockhart....

Harry gagged, his appetite suddenly vanishing. Picturing the school full of Lockhart's relations was enough to put anyone off their dinner, and it left him feeling so horrified he thought he might just pull a Malfoy and drop dead--until a thought struck him, a thought that was at once very nasty and very hilarious: The Dursleys. 

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley.....knowing Aunt Marge, she'd drag them all to Hogwarts by their ears if she had to, to celebrate her long-overdue marriage to one of her family's worst horrors. His aunt and uncle's opinion of wizardkind wasn't likely to be improved by Lockhart, who had to be the most annoying person on the face of the planet. Harry could feel his eyes glazing over at the possibilities.....Dudley meeting Malfoy....Aunt Petunia, faced with the freezing scorn of Professor McGonagall....and as for Uncle Vernon, if Snape didn't poison him, Harry would eat his hat....

His thoughts must have read on his face, for Hermione nudged him sharply in the ribs. "Harry," she warned, sounding so disturbingly like McGonagall that Ron winced. "Don't you even think about it...."

Harry started to protest, but Ron cut him off. "Hermione, honestly. Even if Harry behaves himself, you really think Fred and George are going to? You heard what Professor Doors and my mum were talking about on the train--this wedding's going to be huge, they always make a big deal out of it when a professor gets married. All the old students show up--"

Hermione paled. "You mean to tell me," she said, looking torn between horror and a mad desire to laugh, "You mean to tell me that all the old Hogwarts alumni will be showing up for this? ALL of them?"

Ron nodded, looking more wicked than ever Fred and George could.

"Oh...Oh, God," she whispered, as the full implications of this dawned on her. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, she burst into a fit of giggles so strong she had to stuff her fist in mouth to muffle them. 

"Oh, we're in for it now," she choked.

Harry shook his head, a strange, wonderfully mischievous joy bubbling inside him as wild, half-formed plots and plans chased themselves through his head, each more crazy and asinine than the last.....He would be here, with the Messrs., the Weasleys, a school full of wedding guests, and _Dudley_. It was going to be heaven.

He gradually realized that the noise of the Hall had died down, and Dumbledore was speaking once more.

"Now, that's not the only news I have for you," he said, his glasses flashing as he peered around at all of them. His tone grew somewhat serious. "I trust all of you remember Professor Doors, our late Herbology teacher who passed away near the end of last term."

It was as if he'd doused them all with a spray of ice; the high spirits vanished quicker than the flick of a switch. A hall full of sad, still very wounded faces turned to him, wondering what he was thinking, bringing up something like that at a time like this.

"Her death left a hole in many of our hearts, a hole that even now has yet to heal. Many of you have been wondering why no new Herbology teacher sits at this staff table. I will now tell you.

"Professor Doors is not dead."

Silence.

"That's not funny," someone shouted from the Slytherin end. He sounded angry. "That's really not funny, you sick old--"

"Oh, shut your cake-hole, Baddock, it is so."

Harry hadn't thought it possible for a thousand people to turn in unison, but the students in the Hall certainly came close. All but he, Ron, and Hermione whirled round, gasping, to find themselves faced with the wispy-haired, weatherworn visage of their small Herbology teacher, who was at that moment grinning from ear to pointy ear.

"Now where's a camera when you need one?" she said, surveying the students' shocked faces. "Really, if ever there was a Kodak moment....."

Silence.

"Ga...ga....." choked Colin Creevey, trembling.

"Oh, don't you dare," Doors warned, uncrossing her arms. "Don't you _even_ think about it. I've had so many people screaming in my face the last few days, it makes last year look like a bloody tea party."

It was her voice more than her words that did it, but as soon as she had said this the tension in the Hall dissolved, and Harry found himself snickering along with everyone else. Up at the staff table he saw McGonagall with her head in her hands, indulging in a rare smile, while Professor Flitwick chortled squeakily. Lupin and Sirius, who had been fighting laughter long before anyone else, were both chuckling.

"Well, as much as I know many of you are about to explode with questions," Dumbledore said, gathering the students' attention once more. "I must remind you that the feast is growing cold in the kitchens, and the house-elves will be most put out if we don't do it the justice I'm certain it deserves. Lorna, if you'd kindly join us, we can get on with it."

Doors wandered up to the staff table amid a torrent of whispers, all of which ceased as the food suddenly appeared on their plates.

"Now that's what I call a feast," said Ron, drooling. "Dunno why we take so long to get to it every year."

Nobody was very keen to tell him, as they were all too busy shoveling down all the delicious foods they could reach, still trying to talk and consequently spraying crumbs over everything. Harry noted with some amusement that the quality of table manners among the new students seemed to drop with every passing year--if Aunt Petunia could see them all, she'd probably die....

Harry snorted into his mashed potatoes. Oh, it was going to be a long, _long_ wait until December, that was for certain. Mind reeling once more with possibilities, he ate mechanically as glorious visions danced before his eyes--exploding wedding cakes, Aunt Marge on fire, Peeves in a tux; it was wonderful, and how on earth he was going to last the months until Christmas, he didn't know.

Snape didn't turn up all evening, to Harry's disappointment; he'd rather been wanting to see what the frightened Potions master would do in a hall full of students and his now-resurrected arch nemesis. What with the understandable distraction of an excellent feast and an overload of bizarre information to process, nobody else seemed to miss him.

At long last the gluttony ended, leaving a Hall full of contentedly overstuffed humans and several extremely envious ghosts. Nearly Headless Nick, who had grown so indignant at Ron's unabashed shoveling that his head fell off in a rage, glided smack through a line of first years in his hurry to evacuate the Hall. Harry himself managed to rise to his feet only with great difficulty, and the movement caused his stomach to send up several disgruntled growls of protest.

"Whatever they're putting in that food, it ought to be outlawed," muttered Dean Thomas, rubbing his stomach and wincing in a placid sort of way. "We all keep on eating like that, we'll be as fat as Harry's cousin by Halloween."

"Aunt Marge would like that," Harry murmured to Ron as they left the Hall. He put on a high, sickeningly screechy voice. "'I do like to see a healthy-sized child'."

Ron, too full to snicker, merely shook his head. "If that's healthy, I'm happy to be emaciated," he said, stretching lazily. "I'm beat. I hope Dobby didn't take it into his head to give us all bedwarmers, though, or we'll have our feet burned off by morning."

Harry yawned; at that moment he was too tired to care whether or not his feet were there when he woke up. He had no idea what time it was, but the castle was filled with that cold stillness that only comes very late at night or very early in the morning, and he knew his eyes were going to feel like lead tomorrow.

Seamus stretched and shook his head. "Wonder how we're going to live till December," he said sleepily, running his hands through his sandy hair.

"More like how we're going to live _through_ December," Hermione muttered, shivering. She alone looked halfway awake (though only halfway), but it was enough for her to spot Peeves, lurking at the head of the staircase with his arms full of onions. One of the Gryffindor prefects, who bore such an astounding resemblance to Percy it was almost frightening, darted up the steps and shooed him off, and got the full benefit of the disgruntled poltergeist's stinky shower.

"Yep, it's official, everyone," Ron mumbled, as they scrabbled through the portrait hole (the password was 'Mimblewimble'). He and Harry bade Hermione a weary good-night, somehow made it up the stairs to their dormitory, and both collapsed onto their beds without even bothering to take their shoes off.

The Waiting

Surprisingly (and perhaps mercifully), the first two weeks of term passed in a blur, in which nobody seemed quite asleep or awake. The delayed shock of Dumbledore's announcement set in with a vengeance, and the teachers could often be heard remarking that they'd never had it so easy, so pronounced was the lethargy with which their pupils went about everything. Only Doors and Sirius had anything to complain about--Sirius because his Animagi classes required a lot of energy on the part of the students, and Doors because she found it boring as hell.

Even Peeves seemed to feel the effects of the school-wide stunning, for his pranks were not at all up to their usual standard--he even resorted to planting Muggle-made rubber vomit on Filch's desk. Harry muttered to Ron that day that it was a good thing the twins weren't here to see him stoop so low, or it would have killed them.

Snape was rather slow to recover from his initial (and quite widely-known) shock, but recover he did, with the almost impossible result that Potions class became worse than ever. Had not the whole school been too dazed to retaliate, Snape would have found himself inundated with pranks from the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes order form, but luckily for him everyone was too preoccupied to even think of it. He avoided the upper part of the castle as much as possible, emerging from his dungeon only for very hurried meals in the Great Hall. Dumbledore, in a characteristic fit of wisdom, had seated he and the Marauders at opposite ends of the staff table, but anyone paying attention could see that arrangement wasn't going to work for long.

And so the two weeks passed, with such little incident they might as well have all been attending a Muggle school. That period of grace came to a sudden and very joyous end on the third Monday of September, when the school seemed to band together as one and snap out of it. And then came the horrible delights of anticipation.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione happened to be halfway through Charms when the intangible stupor broke, where they had been halfheartedly learning Apparition Charms ("They'll come in handy for your test next year!").

"Wow," muttered Ron, staring half dreamily as Trevor the toad winked to life in front of him. "How lovely...."

"What?" grunted Harry, who had most unfortunately had a pile of books appear on top of his head and fall to the floor with a crash.

"I was just thinking...." Ron murmured, his eyes unfocused as he gazed out the window. "I wonder what sort of wedding dress your Aunt Marge will be wearing?"

Harry and Hermione both gawked at him for a moment, before the former collapsed in a fit of laughter. The thought of Aunt Marge in a wedding dress hadn't even occurred to him, but now that Harry pictured it, he was fairly breaking his ribs with glee.

"Where did THAT come from?" he asked, shooing Trevor off the table.

"Dunno," said Ron, as Hermione zapped a book out of sight and back again across the room. "Just sort of.....occurred to me. Say, you think the Dursleys will actually show up at this thing?"

Harry shrugged, casting about for his missing herbal. "Depends," he said, snatching at the book as it appeared on a table to his left. "Depends on how badly Marge wants to drag them here, and how badly they want to stay away." He stuffed the book in his bag and glanced at the clock; they had about five minutes before the bell. Rubbing his head, he looked about for Hermione, who was trying to undo some disastrous blunder of Neville's.

"Wonder what Malfoy would do if he saw your cousin Dudley?" Ron said, half dreamily. Hermione, who quickly gave up on Neville, sniffed.

"Well, honestly, I just know this whole thing's going to be an absolute mess, and how any of us can be expected to make up our O.W.L.s with the school in such a state, I don't--"

Harry and Ron groaned, but fortunately Hermione was cut off by the bell before she could wreck their spirits any further. The three spilled out into the hallway, which was flooded with cheery autumn sunshine.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" sighed Ron, as they fought their way to the staircase leading to the Potions dungeon. "Wish we could actually enjoy it....Hannah Abbott told me Hagrid's got a fresh Pegasus hatching out by the forest."

"Better hope they don't get out into the vegetable beds like the Brownies," Hermione grinned. "Doors might turn him into one himself."

Harry snorted. Professor Doors had gotten hold of some weird and rare vegetable for them to play with, and some of Hagrid's charges had gotten loose and raised hell with them. Doors had been so mad she'd given him a week-long case of Twitchy Ears, and gotten Fang drunk.

His mirth at this was short-lived, however--in no time at all they were faced with the door to the Potions classroom, and the thoroughly terrifying hell that lay beyond it. Both Harry and Ron glanced at Hermione before they went in, and Ron silently mouthed, "Watch Malfoy."

The three were met with a blast of cold, as though the stone walls were sweating ice. Their breath rose in frosty clouds, and Harry shivered as he drew near their table and glanced at the Slytherin end of the room. Sure enough, there was Malfoy, his face slightly flushed as he watched the Gryffindors enter. Goyle was clattering around near the sinks, and Crabbe, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. Harry looked at Ron and rolled his eyes.

Hermione alone seemed not to notice the mooning Malfoy, and briskly set about arranging their cauldrons and ingredients. She had just finished color-coding her jars of powdered herbs when Harry realized they'd been here a whole five minutes and Snape still hadn't yelled at them. He looked around the room, confused--

"Oh, no way," he muttered.

Most of the class stood assembled and ready around the dungeon, but Snape was nowhere to be seen. Snape was never late for class--Harry thought it rather made his day to sneer at everyone as they came in--and the only time he'd ever shown up after the rest of them had been during that whole Starling fiasco of the previous year. That he should do so now did not bode well.

Apparently several other people had caught on to this as well, for some worried muttering had broken out around the room. A few of the Slytherins looked downright alarmed, but their fears were laid to rest a moment later, when the door slammed open and Snape strode in. He stormed up to his desk, robes swishing, and turned to face them all.

Harry wasn't the only one who recoiled as the Potions master passed--Snape had seemed more menacing than ever lately, for in addition to his usual ill-temper he had acquired an air of slight.....unbalance, that made anybody near him unconsciously think of straight jackets. The Gryffindors were by no means the only ones who thought he might snap and strangle them all--several Slytherins had been spending a lot more of their spare time in the library than even Hermione could manage.

"Good afternoon," Snape said, his voice so soft Harry could scarcely hear him; his eyes, glinting unpleasantly through a curtain of black hair, had an almost manic gleam in their cold depths. Harry shivered.

"Today we will be working on something new," he whispered, his eyes darting over the silent students. "Something you won't find in your textbooks. This potion is one of the most highly dangerous concoctions you will ever brew, and I warn you now that anyone who fails to follow my instructions, TO THE LETTER, will wish they were never born."

Silence. Neville gulped.

"I also must inform you that I sincerely doubt any one of you is ready to prepare such a work of artistry as this potion, but the Headmaster seems to believe otherwise. Even if, by some miracle, you should manage to do it right, I know none of you has the maturity to use it correctly."

The class glanced at one another, both interested and apprehensive. Hermione sniffed indignantly, clearly miffed at Snape's lack of faith in them.

"So, what're we making?" demanded Blaise Zabini, voicing the common question.

Snape's expression was so forbidding that Harry felt a momentary pity for Blaise. He took a moment before answering, apparently working up a proper sneer. "A--" slight shudder "--love potion."

Silence, broken by a loud sputtering from the Slytherin side. Closer inspection revealed its source to be Malfoy, who had gone redder than a sunset and looked as though he'd rather like to sink through the floor.

Ron kicked Harry and grinned--if anybody ought to know about the effects of a love potion, it was Malfoy.

Harry coughed, and an awkward moment passed in relative silence, while the Gryffindors, most of whom knew full well about Fred and George's activities, snickered into their sleeves.

"Moving right along," Snape hissed through clenched teeth. "I must explain this concoction, before I dare let you people loose with it.

"As many of you know, love potions are banned at Hogwarts, and that ban has not been lifted. What we are brewing is a highly diluted form of one of the oldest and most complex love spells in known wizardry, which will act, in the words of the Headmaster, as a 'cheer-inducing' drink." 

"Sort of like wizard Prozac, eh?" muttered Dean. Hermione and Harry chuckled.

"Anyone attempting to make or even research the original recipe will have to answer to me," Snape continued, sounding so venomous that Neville trembled visibly. "Were it not for the Headmaster's--unique--sense of humor, I wouldn't let any of you near this potion, but as it is--" and here he shot them all a frigid glare "--get it right or pay the price."

He swept around the room and began handing out papers, leaving the class to murmur among themselves.

"Trust Dumbledore to help the fun along," muttered Ron, scanning the list of ingredients.

Hermione looked up from her crushed dittany. "What d'you mean by that?" she asked, adding a cupful to her cauldron.

"Well, think about it." Ron dumped a spoonful of rosemary into his own cauldron and turned to her. "Teaching us the recipe to an over-potent love potion just before a wacko wedding? He knows half the school will go look up the real thing, it's too good not to, and by the time we've all got it figured out right, half the guests will be here and Mrs. Norris will be mooning over a squirrel."

Harry laughed, and even Hermione had to smile. Snape glared at them from across the dungeon.

"Cheerful potion, huh?" Harry murmured, more to himself than anyone. "If anybody could use one, it's him."

"I heard that, Potter," Snape said lazily, shooting Harry a withering stare and flipping open his grade book. "That'll be fi--"

Harry winced, but before Snape could decimate Gryffindor's points, the dungeon door opened and in strode Sirius.

"Oh, hello, all," he said, stopping short on sight of the class. "Didn't mean to intrude, but Severus, how many times do I have to ask you for essence of Coreopsis before you finally cough it up?"

Harry hadn't thought it possible for Snape to look more murderous, but at Sirius's more-than-timely entrance his face had taken on a look of such fury that Neville gave a squeak and dove under his table.

"How many times must I tell you, Black, that I haven't got any?" he hissed, through a jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder he didn't crack a tooth. "Go ask that little tree-hugging friend of yours for some, it's her department more than mine."

The class looked at Sirius, waiting for his response, when the door opened yet again and Doors stuck her head in.

"And how many times do I have to tell _you_, Snape? Dumbledore made me ship all that garbage into the ingredients closet, which you in your infinite paranoia refuse to give anyone the key to." She turned to Sirius, who still hadn't opened his mouth to shoot a retort Snape's way. "And Sirius, I just thought I'd inform you that your class has invaded my greenhouses and almost trampled all the Candelibren Mushrooms. Get 'em outta there."

The class snickered, but Sirius paled visibly. Candelibren Mushrooms were some of Doors's more interesting pets, which belched fire at irregular intervals and had more than once set the gardens alight.

"The Candelibren Mushrooms?" he asked, sounding as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Lorna, you left them alone out there with those things? They'll get burned alive!"

"Aw, no they won't," Doors said, her eyes dancing. "I left Hagrid with them."

This completing Sirius's horror nicely, he dashed from the dungeon with a mumbled, "Oh, NO." The students watched him go, half amused and half afraid.

"Well, that was amusing," said Doors, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Pity it had to be a lie." She flashed a grin at Harry, and, after a moment's rummaging in the numerous pockets of her earth-covered robes, produced a lumpy paper package tied with string.

"Oh, my, that was ever so professional," Snape sneered, crossing his arms. "Honestly, are we running a school or a circus?"

"I vote circus," muttered Seamus. The Gryffindors snorted.

"Nah, more of a crazy house," Doors said cheerfully, producing more odd parcels from the depths of her pockets. Harry was very forcefully reminded of the only other time he'd ever seen her down here, two years ago when she had saved Malfoy from potential decapitation at the hands of Snape. She even had a smear of dirt on her nose, and it was a full two minutes before she had emptied her pockets all over Neville's table.

"What's going on now, I wonder?" muttered Ron, shoving his cauldron off the fire as it started to boil.

"Merry Christmas, everyone," Doors said, shaking the dirt on her robes all over the floor. "You're gonna be needing all that for your--er--potion." She gave Neville a nudge with her foot that brought him out from under the table. "Snape, that junk Sirius wanted ought to be on the top left shelf in the corner, if you haven't reorganized yet." She blew a wisp of frazzled hair out of her face, her odd eyes twinkling with an unusually mischievous light.

Snape seemed to be fighting for self-control. "Thank you, Lorna," he said icily, sounding about as grateful as a stray duck on a skeet range. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a class to teach."

Doors grinned and cocked her head to one side, observing the way the students nearest Snape flinched at his every move. "Erm, right," she said. She turned and added in a whisper to the students, "Don't worry, his birthday party will be ruined, once again, by his explosive flatulence."

Such a bizarre tone did she say this in that before they could help it, the whole class had burst into gales of laughter. Snape, who hadn't heard a word the Herbology professor had said, flushed the color of an old brick and finally lost it completely.

"OUT!" he bellowed, pointing a long, pale finger at the door. "I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISRUPTING MY CLASS ANY FURTHER!"

Doors looked at him, apparently scandalized. "Really, you've done a more than passable job of that yourself," she said, her eyes widening and an almost-convincing look of innocence flitting across her face. Her voice lowered in a conspiratorial whisper as she added, "Don't worry, Snape, you're still the true Lord of the Dance, no matter what those idiots at work say." And with that she spun around and marched from the classroom, leaving Harry and company speechless with suppressed hilarity.

"Some things never change," Harry sighed, as the class set to digging about in the pile of goodies Doors had left them.

"Some things are better left they way they are," Hermione retorted.

****

Despite this more than welcome Potions diversion, school progressed as usual, with the slight difference that the days seemed to crawl along at a speed comparable to that of Ron's old broomstick. Harry knew it wasn't possible for time to stop completely, but it certainly seemed to come close. 

Now that the school had woken up to the fact that the greatest chance for anarchy Hogwarts had ever seen was looming quite close in their future, a sudden and roaring joke business sprang up in a matter of days. From what Harry could see, over half the merchandise looked like it came from a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes order form, and he knew for certain that Fred and George were raking it in when they sent Ron a solid gold owl collar. It made Pigwidgeon drop like a stone, so Ron sold it and raided Honeyduke's. 

The gag-plotting provided a temporary distraction, but anyone could see a more permanent solution to the schoolwide unrest would be needed, and soon. Hagrid confided to Harry that Dumbledore had called about three faculty meetings over it, but the only result was a lot of bickering between Snape and Sirius, and Filch's suggestion that all students be shackled until December.

At least Harry had the imminent start of the Quidditch season to keep him occupied--so many players had graduated that Katie Bell, before passing on her captainship to Harry, had helped him scout out all the potential talent in the whole of Gryffindor house over the summer. Surprisingly, Denis Creevey proved to be an astonishingly good flier, and Harry had recruited him as a Chaser. As for the rest of them, only two people had been known to Harry beforehand--Ron and Natalie McDonald, a third-year who had once lent him an extra Dungbomb. He'd never seen his team play, but he knew Katie wouldn't let him have anyone who wasn't up to strut.

And so another fortnight snailed by. Filch was kept so busy catching pupils trying to sneak out to Hogsmeade that Peeves got away with murder--literally--and wound up being chased over half the castle by an extremely irate Hagrid, taking wild swings at the poltergeist with a dead stoat. It took his Brownie population weeks to recover, and Peeves was so traumatized that he hid in McGonagall's broom closet and refused to come out for the better part of four days. Harry and his motley team flattened Hufflepuff in their first Quidditch match, much to Malfoy's chagrin--for Malfoy was now captain of the Slytherin team, and was having such a hard time dividing his attention between it and Hermione, it was a wonder he hadn't lost it.

Potions class had quickly become something of a favorite--not because Snape suddenly cracked and became a good teacher, but because the long process of brewing their "cheerfulness" concoctions (Snape still wouldn't tell them just what it was called, for fear they'd go find the recipe for the real thing) was an absolute riot. Harry privately felt Snape had good reason for not wanting them anywhere near it, as he and everyone else learned very quickly just how unstable the potion was when Neville knocked his cauldron over and nearly blew up the entire dungeon. Even Hermione was treading with caution around it, and what little of her time wasn't devoted to studying for the O.W.L.s was spent researching various love spells and their effects when altered.

"She's batty," Ron said to Harry one day, as Hermione staggered into the common room with her arms so full of books she was nearly falling over. "All this hanging over her head, and she's studying for the O.W.L.s? I haven't heard any teachers mention them, have you?"

Harry shook his head, tongue between his teeth as he studied the chess board in front of him. Ron's bishops had him hemmed in good, and his tiny knight kept swiping his lance at them in frustration.

"And as for all that love potion nonsense, if she doesn't quit it Malfoy'll hear about it, and Lord only knows what he'll do then," Ron continued, seeming to take Harry's silence for a response.

"Well, at least Halloween's coming up," Harry said, as Ron's bishops launched a double attack on his knight and threw him off the board. He was sure that wasn't legal, but somehow Ron's chess set always seemed to win on its own. "That ought to be interesting enough to distract everyone, at least for a little while."

It wasn't.

The Long December

Believe it or not, December did eventually arrive, and it was one of the coldest Decembers on record. Hermione's parents wrote to tell her Bristol had smashed the previous low temperature into pieces, bottoming out at almost twenty degrees below zero. Dean Thomas was telling anyone who would listen that La Nina was finally kicking in for good, and the Ice Age would be happening all over again if they weren't careful.

The castle, always somewhat drafty in the winter, grew so cold that Dumbledore had to recruit extra house-elves to go around and find all the cracks, which the staff spent an entire Saturday patching up. The improvement was nothing short of remarkable, though they still had to keep roaring fires going day and night to keep the place warm. Every day, without fail, the ceiling of the Great Hall was covered with leaden clouds, so dark that the torches had to be left lit all day.

Quidditch season was cancelled early, on account of the numerous blizzards that started blasting through in the middle of November. Harry and his team were especially bitter over this, as their odd and highly unorthodox training sessions had made them good enough to flatten all the other teams in about five minutes. Ron took this especially hard, and went around snarling for days after Dumbledore's announcement.

"Stupid weather," he muttered, glaring out the frosted window in the Gryffindor common room. "Now what am I supposed to do with all my time?"  
"Oh, I don't know," said Hermione, who was pouring over some book Harry would bet weighed half as much as she did. "How about your homework, for a change?"

"Ha-very-ha," Ron snapped, not turning around. "Wish Fred and George were still here. This place isn't half as interesting without them." 

At that moment, a sudden explosion burst from the fireplace, sending clouds of purple smoke billowing across the room and bouncing sparks off the walls. Half the students looked up, startled, to see Natalie McDonald and Denis Creevey, both looking extremely guilty and holding a box emblazoned with the WWW mark of Wealsey's Wizard Wheezes.

"Oops," muttered Denis.

"Well, at least we know it works," Natalie whispered.

"You were saying?" laughed Harry, turning back to his Charms homework. "Cheer up, Ron, we can always go out and practice once the weather clears up."

"Yeah, and have our noses frozen off," said Ron, refusing to be placated. "Maybe I'll go help Doors clean out the greenhouses."

Yet another effect this unusual winter had was to force their only outdoor classes, Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology, inside the castle. Harry still wasn't sure just which one had been more of a zoo to move, between Hagrid's manic Pegusi and the Venomous Tentacula, which put up so much of a fight at being transplanted that they wound up having to take half the wall in Greenhouse Three along with it. Hagrid's monsters were currently occupying most of the fourth floor, while Doors had started having classes in the room across from her apartments. The whole castle smelled of herbs and fertilizer, something which Snape complained about almost daily (never mind that fact that his classroom stunk far worse the whole year round.)

"I wouldn't," Hermione put in absently, scribbling something on a roll of parchment. "She's down there with Lupin and Sirius, and we all know what that means."

Harry suppressed a groan. "Oh, I hope they don't mess with the ceiling in the Great Hall again," he said. "It's weird enough having it look like it's going to snow on us, we really didn't need to experience the real thing." The three Marauders, as bored and restless as any of the students, had somehow enchanted the ceiling so it dumped a whole load of snow on everyone halfway through breakfast the week before, and nearly started a fist fight between Snape and Sirius. McGonagall, in an extremely uncharacteristic fit of anger, had clouted them both around the head and actually threatened them with detention, before remembering she couldn't give detention to a teacher.

"I dunno," snorted Ron, cheering at the thought. "It _was_ kind of funny to see Snape fall on his ass after throwing that punch at Sirius. Wonder what his problem is, anyway?"

"Who, Snape?" Hermione asked, still not looking up from her book.

"Naw, his evil twin," Ron retorted. "Yeah, Snape. He's been impossible lately, don't tell me you haven't noticed--" he put on a foul, simpering voice "--'All right, let's see how many of you can get this one wrong.' 'Oh, soooo close, Longbottom, but that will still be forty points from Gryffindor.' Honestly, without Quidditch, what's going to keep him from putting us into a negative score?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, the man did find out his girlfriend was Voldemort, for crying out loud. That's bound to make anyone go a little cracked."

"Yeah, not to mention that Lockhart's coming back," added Harry, grinning. "I know it's put _me_ off my dinner a fair few times."

Even Ron had to laugh. "Listen to us; we're defending Snape, of all things. C'mon, Harry, let's go crash Doors's greenhouse and find out what those loonies are up to."

"Good luck," said Hermione, making no move to get up. "Just don't get lost on the way out there."

"Why aren't you coming along?" asked Ron. 

"Oh, I've just got this feeling something worthwhile will happen today," Hermione said vaguely.

Ron rolled his eyes, and he and Harry scrambled up to their dormitory in search of cloaks and boots. Someone (probably Dobby) had placed a coal heater in the middle of the room, filled with some kind of enchanted peat that never went out. The two of them rummaged around in their trunks, throwing out all sorts of oddities before laying hold of what they wanted.

"You know, for once I'm glad Mum likes to knit," Ron said, pulling on a maroon stocking cap that clashed horribly with his hair.

"You're not the only one," said Harry, pulling out a thick crimson sweater with a large yellow G on the front. As soon as the cold front had moved in in November, Mrs. Weasley had sent he, Ron, and Ginny huge parcels full of warm things, to the envy of half their House. Harry had also bought a fur-lined cloak by owl-order, and some better shoes.

By the time he and Ron were clad against the cold, both looked more like walking yarn marshmallows then anything. Harry laughed out loud at Ron's hat, which had a big maroon pompon on the top, but shut up when Ron reminded him that his new boots had Rainbow Brite shoelaces in them (he'd had to borrow some off Natalie McDonald.)

"All right, all right, we're even," he said. "Now let's see if we can make it to the greenhouses without overbalancing and landing face-first in the snow."

He had good cause to worry--by the time he and Ron had made it to the front doors, both were sweating and half ready to call it quits right there. It was only the thought of what Doors's greenhouses must be looking like that propelled them onward, and out into the blast of bitter cold that hovered beyond the castle walls.

"Wow," breathed Ron, his eyes widening as they spilled out into the three feet of snow that had buried the grounds. The leaden sky was heavy with impending snowfall, and the faint breeze was icier than passing through a ghost. All was immensely, almost frighteningly silent, and so still it looked like a postcard.

"Nice, eh?" muttered Ron, his breath rising in frosty clouds. "Come on, we'd better get moving before our feet freeze to the ground."

Harry laughed, and the two of them started trampling their way through the drifts. Without the usual landmarks to guide them, they had no idea just where in all the blobs of white the greenhouses would be, and so simply floundered along until the cleared the top of a small rise and caught sight of a light in the dimness.

"Phew," he said, adjusting his muffler. "Somehow seems a lot farther in the snow, doesn't it?"

Ron nodded in agreement, but Harry could see he wasn't paying attention; his eyes were trained on the sky, and his head was cocked as if listening.

"What is it?" Harry asked, following his friend's gaze.

"I don't know," said Ron, still concentrating on something Harry was unaware of. "I thought I heard something, but....Wait, there it is!"

This time, Harry heard it clearly--sleigh bells, jangling faintly but very clearly in the distance. From the sound of them there had to be hundreds, but the oddest thing was that they seemed to be coming from the sky.

He and Ron glanced at one another, not sure what to make of this. The clouds were so thick they couldn't have seen a jumbo jet if it flew right over them, but it didn't stop them from looking.

"What the....." he muttered.

"Oh, listen, here comes Father Christmas."

Ron and Harry turned to see Lupin, Doors, and Sirius, who had come out of the greenhouse and were watching the sky expectantly. All three were bundled up against the chill, their faces flushed from the cold. Lupin had on the shabbiest overcoat Harry had ever seen, Sirius was all but buried in a large black furry thing that might possibly be a cloak, and Doors was wearing a long white rabbit-fur cape that looked as though she'd tried making it by hand (which, knowing her, she had.) Each was holding, wrapped in scarves and mufflers, a shivering Spineade Spudicus, none of which seemed to care one whit about noises in the sky.

Doors grinned at Harry. "You do still believe in Father Christmas, don't you, Harry? I would hope so, but even if not, you will in a minute."

Harry looked at her, utterly bewildered; did she know what was going on? No owls had been able to come or go for about a week now, so she couldn't have gotten word from anyone, but knowing Doors it wouldn't stop her from finding out.

He didn't have tome to wonder what she meant by that, though--the jangling grew infinitely louder, and suddenly through the clouds there dove one of the most bizarre-looking things Harry had ever seen.

It looked like a giant bobsled, hollyberry-red and so thickly covered in Christmas lights it was nearly blinding. It was drawn by a brace of puffing and extremely ill-tempered looking pigeons, and as it dipped lower Harry caught sight of the drivers--

"Fred! George!" he cried, as the glowing monstrosity touched down on the snow near the greenhouses. Ron's jaw dropped as all five of his brothers piled out of it, followed by a grinning Mr. Weasley and a rather green Mrs. Weasley.

"Surprise!" yelled Fred, cutting the braces and letting the pigeons fly full pelt for the Owlry.

"Thought you could all use a little entertainment," added George.

"Heavens, as if that infernal sled weren't bad enough," said Mrs. Weasley, clutching a handkerchief to her mouth.

"Here, Molly, let me," said Lupin. He waved his wand over her head and muttered something. Mrs. Weasley's expression cleared at once.

"Oh, that's better," she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Mum--what are you guys doing here?" asked Ron, retrieving his jaw. "Guests aren't due for another two weeks!"

"Somebody sure told you wrong," said Mr. Weasley, adjusting his glasses. "Though I must say, the twins could have set us down in a better spot. We'll have a fair walk up to the castle from here."

"Aw, they did fine, Dad," said one of his sons, a tall, ponytailed youth Harry identified as Bill. "Everybody else'll be landing up on the front lawn; at least down here we've got room to breathe."

Harry stopped short. "Everybody else?" he said, glancing at Ron.

Doors's eyes twinkled. "Oh, sure," she said. "It's like the World Cup, Harry; they've got to stagger the arrivals a bit so the Muggles won't notice."

Ron snorted. "As if a Muggle's not going to notice that thing," he said, jerking his head at the sleigh. "The decorations were Dad's idea, weren't they?"

Mrs. Weasley shot her husband an exasperated glare, but Doors laughed.

"Well, I think it looks wonderful," she said, surveying the brilliant object with squinted eyes. "Besides, you know those Muggles--one light in the sky and they're screaming UFO." She glanced up at the heavens, her breath rising up and covering her flyaway bangs in frost. "Well, it can't be long before everyone else gets here, so let's get all your things up to the castle before the stampede."

She, Sirius, and Lupin set to unpacking the sleigh, while the twins pulled Ron and Harry aside. Each was carrying a very suspicious-looking knapsack.

"Our contributions," they grinned, opening the sacks to reveal the most frightening assortment of pranks Harry had ever seen.

"We need to hide this and the rest of it in your dormitory," said Fred.

Harry was about to ask just what the 'rest of it' was, but at that moment the air was filled once more with the sound of sleigh bells--about then thousand of them. Harry's mouth fell open as a great spot of multicolored light appeared glowing through the clouds, spreading like heat on a woodstove. 

"Holy....." he started, but his voice failed him as, one by one, almost five hundred sleighs, toboggans, and bobsleds came swooping down toward Hogwarts. They dipped down through the clouds all around him, drawn by anything from owls to raccoons, and every last one was decked out in Christmas decorations (though none was half so bright as the Weasleys'.)

"Hey, Harry, look at that!" cried Ron, pointing.

Harry turned, and nearly burst out laughing at the sight of an enormous green creation, covered in flashing shamrocks and sporting a Muggle disco ball. The freckled, sandy-haired woman driving it could only be Seamus Finnigan's mother, who, Harry remembered, had a Muggle husband. She zipped aggressively past a man who looked astoundingly like Pansy Parkinson, who shook his fist at her and earned himself a shamrock in the face.

By this time, half the windows in the castle were filled with gawking students, who obviously hadn't been expecting this any more than Ron and Harry. Several people recognizing their parents shouted and waved, while others searched the sky for some sign of 'their' sleigh. The leaden, twilit sky was filled with little flashing lights and the clangor of bells, and more kept appearing through the clouds.

"See, I told you so," said Bill, as the professors and the Weasleys started floating their luggage up to the castle. Harry had to admit he'd had a point when they crested the small ridge, and found themselves faced with a traffic jam that made Muggle highways look calm and simple. It was plain these witches and wizards weren't used to parking in a crowd, for already there had been several collisions, and Hagrid could be seen breaking up a potential duel.

"No, you cursed idiot, left! Your OTHER left!"

Harry whirled around, a sudden damper stomped on his high spirits--that voice could only belong to one person.

Lucius Malfoy sat atop an enormous, ornate, Slytherin-green bobsled, shouting furiously at his harassed-looking driver. His wife, a slender, aristocratic blonde woman, was turning up her nose at the commotion. 

Lucius's temper was definitely not improved by Mrs. Finnigan, who went speeding by and sent a wave of snow over his sled, knocking the driver clear off and into the drifts.

"You stupid woman, look what you've done to my sleigh!" he thundered, quite forgetting his dignity. Mrs. Finnigan responded by backing her sled up and starting a terrific row with Mr. Malfoy, her thick Irish brogue ringing out over the din. Both their spouses looked downright alarmed, and it looked like Mr. Malfoy was about to pull out his wand and curse Mrs. Finnigan when Doors's voice rang out and cut them off short.

"Lucius! Shivon! Long time, no see!"

Both turned, their quarrel forgotten at once, and gawked at her for a full minute before Mrs. Finnigan hopped down and threw her arms around Doors's neck.

"Lorna! Faith, Seamus told me ye'd died, ye scoundrel! What d'ye mean by pullin' a joke like that?"

Doors caught Harry's eye and smirked in a way that said, "Here we go again."

Lucius had helped his wife out of the sleigh and sent her off with their butler. He was looking from Doors to Harry with an extremely odd expression on his face. Harry tensed, thinking he might decide to get curse-happy after all, when he did something so vastly out of character that Harry nearly choked--shoving Mrs. Finnigan aside, he caught Doors in a rib-crushing hug, looking as though Christmas had just come early.

"Don't you EVER scare me like that again!" he snarled, pulling away from her and shaking her shoulders. "Letting us all believe you'd died, really--"

He seemed to notice Harry's mouth hanging open wide enough to catch flies, for he laughed his usual cold laugh and said, "Don't gawk so, Potter; surely you knew there was scarcely a person in school Lorna didn't get along with. Only Gryffindor I didn't hate," he added, shooting Sirius and Lupin a sneer that was much more like his old self. "Remember that." He hurried to join his wife in the entrance hall, leaving Harry and Ron to continue gaping.

"Well, that was.....interesting," said Ron, as Mr. Finnigan hopped nervously off his sled and joined them. His face was so pale as he stared after Mr. Malfoy that Hermione, who had come out wrapped up in a bright red cloak, burst out laughing.

"You....you....you knew about this, didn't you?" Ron burst out, as Hermione doubled over and fairly howled. "When you said you had a feeling something worthwhile would happen today--why didn't you _tell_ us? For crying out loud, how'd you even find out in the first place?"

Hermione wiped her streaming eyes, hiccoughing clouds into the frozen air. "I overheard Professor McGonagall at lunch the other day," she gasped, ducking as a stray owl flew overhead. "And--well--oh, you should have _seen_ the looks on your faces!"

"Regular Kodak moment, eh, Hermione?" said Doors, adjusting her scraggy cloak. Ron stared blankly, but Harry snickered a bit. "Come on, you people, let's get inside before we all freeze to death." Doors grabbed Harry and Lupin's hands and swung them both through the snow, closely followed by Ron and Sirius. Hermione, still hiccoughing, made her way through the snow beside them, and (with no small difficulty) the little group fought a path back to the castle.

The chaos within the school was even greater than that outside. The entrance hall was far more crowded than it ever was at the start of term, with grown-ups milling about in confusion and children scrambling to find their parents.

"Good Lord," said Harry, fighting back a laugh as he spotted Neville's grandmother through the fray, whacking the Malfoy's butler with her handbag.

"Harry, you get the feeling we're in for it now?" asked Ron, as Mrs. Longbottom rounded on Mr. Malfoy and proceeded to give him what for, her vulture-topped hat flopping back and forth.

"Well, Lucius certainly is," snorted Sirius, as Mrs. Malfoy dragged her husband away from the fuming Mrs. Longbottom.

"Shouldn't you teachers be doing something about that?" asked Hermione, now recovered enough to speak properly.

Lupin chuckled. "Hermione, we went to school with most of these people," he said. "You think they're going to listen to us? No, it's going to take someone with authority....."

He trailed off, for no sooner had he said this than McGonagall appeared at the head of the marble staircase, a look of such sternness on her face Harry wouldn't have been surprised if she had turned to stone herself.

"Really now," she said, sounding for all the world as though she were admonishing a class, "How old are you all? Your children are able to get settled every year without incident, and I would certainly hope you'd be capable of doing the same."

And to Harry's amazement, the hall filled with fully-grown witches and wizards grew as subdued as a group of abashed first-years. He almost laughed at the hold McGonagall still had on them all, but at that moment Dumbledore appeared in the doorway to the Great Hall.

"Ah, memoirs of the good old days," he said, after surveying the scene for a moment. "Minerva, if you'll allow me to take over, I'd like to welcome our guests properly." His eyes twinkled merrily..

McGonagall looked somewhat embarrassed, but complied, and soon a whole throng of parents and students were trooping into the Great Hall.

Whatever forewarning the students might have lacked, the teachers had evidently been preparing for their visitors--alongside each of the four long House tables stood a second, decked out in its respective color and set for a banquet. The adults, getting the general idea, filed over to the spare tables and stood waiting for the staff.

Harry didn't think he'd ever seen an odder spectacle. Somehow the sight of all those parents, all those friends and enemies and comrades of all different ages, gathered (fairly) peacefully together in the place all had in common, struck him as a bizarre and singularly wonderful thing. No matter what they'd gone on to do in their later lives (and several of the people he could see had done some real doozies), all of them owed life, livelihood, and education to this one stone building in the middle of Scottish nowhere.

He shook his head. As fascinating as it was to watch Mrs. Finnigan chatting with Lavender Brown's mother like old friends (which, Harry reminded himself, they doubtless were), he soon found his eyes wandering. Mr. Malfoy and Draco were both smirking, while Crabbe and Goyle, whose parents looked like larger carbon copies of them, stared with dim greed at the empty plates.

The staff table was a good deal more animated even than usual, as McGonagall attempted to live down her little 'lapse' and the three Marauders held a discreet silverware fight behind one of the centerpieces. The table seemed somehow fuller than normal, but Harry couldn't place how--

"Oh, how corking," he muttered, elbowing Ron in the ribs. "Look who descended from the bat cave."

Professor Trelawney, wearing a red sequined dress and more jewelry than Harry would have thought possible, had seated herself near the far end of the table. She had sat next to Snape, who, Harry noticed, was eying her like something that had just crawled out of a storm drain.

"And this isn't even everybody?" gawked Ron, staring about the crowded hall.

"Not by half," said Hermione, straightening her cloak.

"Where are they all going to sleep?" Ron demanded weakly.

"Ron, you prat," said George, wedging in between he and Hermione. "Are we wizards or not? Dumbledore'll work something out."

The Hall was now largely settled, and silence fell as Dumbledore stood and raised his arms.

"Welcome," he said, beaming out at them all. "First off, I must apologize to the students for the lack of forewarning and shock I believe we've given them--you probably should have been in on this, but we staff members felt you could use the surprise.

"Now, you all know why we're gathered here, and why more of our alumni will be joining us shortly. We'll be celebrating a wedding at the end of this month--" Harry could see him suppressing a grin; this one was the money shot "--the wedding of former professor Gilderoy Lockhart to Miss Marjorie Dursley."

From the reaction in the Hall, the adults had been caught just as off-guard as the students had. Several witches (who had clearly once been Lockhart fans) gave little shrieks, and Harry heard Mr. Finnigan muttering to his wife, "Lockhart? Isn't he that idiot who erased his own memory?"

Dumbledore raised his hands once more. "If you'll allow me," he said, and the babble died down. "I wish to welcome you all back to Hogwarts, and advise you to tuck in on this feast before it gets stone cold. Sleeping arrangements have already been made, and your luggage is being settled as we speak."

He sat down, and the plates before them filled.

The feast went on for hours, well into the night and a bit of the next morning, as old friends caught up and banded together to embarrass their children. At one point Mrs. Finnigan remarked to Mrs. Brown, "Ye know, Seamus often writes of your daughter," followed by a knowing wink that made both Lavender and Seamus go eight shades of scarlet, and Hermione snort into her goulash.

At long last they trooped up to bed, collapsing in contented apathy to sleep until noon.

"Well, one thing's for sure," yawned Ron, crawling into his four-poster. "We keep having feasts like this, I'm going to need bigger dress robes."

A/N: Congratulations! You've made it thus far, so hopefully you're committed. I hope to get the next part up after this weekend (stress the word 'hope), but if the wedding proves harder to write than I'd thought, it might be a week or so. I'm going to ask you all right now NOT TO PRESSURE ME FOR THE NEXT PARTS. I mean it, guys, that just drives me nuts and gives me a writer's block the size of Mount Everest. All I ask of your reviews is mercy, though I'm not sure just how much good that will do.

SpamWarrior


	2. Part Two (subtitled: I LOST ALL MY DAMN ...

All right, this is Part Dos of the monster. I made this one smaller than the first, so it would be a little easier to handle, but people, **I'VE GOT FIVE MORE PARTS AS BIG AS THIS ONE!!!** ::wails:: I'm not half done with the story, and already it's 91 pages long!! WHY can't I ever write a *short* story?

::sigh:: Well, anyhoozle, not too much happens in here--the Dursleys show up, they hold a ::cough:: rehearsal, and all sorts of patented SpamWarrior mayhem ensues. Please don't flame me; I promise, this is going somewhere! Trust me! I just have to finish writing it all out....which will probably kill me.....

Erised Returns

Classes resumed as usual on Monday, but nobody bothered to do much more than sit around and talk. Professor Flitwick let them play at first-year Hovering Charms while they hashed over the upcoming festivities, but Snape would no sooner let them slack off than take over as Head of Gryffindor. Which is why, halfway through Potions, he flew into a rage at our three favorite Hogwartians.

"POTTER!" he thundered, as Harry and Ron, who were dueling with sticks of wormwood, each dealt an especially hard blow and cracked both of them in half. "That's it. You, Granger, and Weasley, follow me. NOW."

Harry glanced at Ron, his good spirits fading in an instant. This was most unfair, seeing as Hermione hadn't even done anything wrong, but knowing Snape he wanted to get the three of them while the getting was good.

"I said _move_," snapped Snape, glaring at them, and Harry got to his feet with a resigned sigh. More than likely they were going to see Dumbledore, unless Snape decided to be really horrible and hand them over to Filch (Harry didn't want to think about that one.) He, Ron, and Hermione followed wordlessly after the Potions master, who pointed them into a small room.

"Wait there," he said, a soft, deadly poison in his voice. "I'll deal with you at the end of class." He slammed the door behind him.

Ron stared after him. "Wonder what that was all about?" he said, shivering and drawing his cloak tighter about him.

"Beats me," said Harry, his breath clouding in the air; it was freezing in here, and if Snape was aiming to give them all hypothermia, he'd probably succeed.

"He's losing it," muttered Hermione, blowing on her fingers. "I didn't even DO anything, why am I in here, anyway?"

Harry didn't answer; he was too busy looking around at the contents of their little prison. A high slit of a window let a strip of cold sunshine in, that fell across all sorts of oddly mismatched junk. A battered armchair stood beside a rusted cauldron full of broken wands, which was tipped against a cracked set of scales. And beyond that, half shrouded in cobwebs and buried under layers of dust, stood--

"The mirror?" muttered Harry. He wiped the dust from the glass, and nearly yelled out in shock.

It was the Mirror of Erised.

"You guys," he said, beckoning fervently to Ron and Hermione. "You guys, get over here."

The two, who had been bickering over God knew what, left off and joined him.

"What is it, Harry?" asked Hermione, coming up behind him. She peered at the mirror over his shoulder, and stopped short. Staring for a moment, her eyes round, she suddenly burst into giggles.

Ron stared at her as though she'd gone mad. "Hermione?" he said, peering over _her_ shoulder. "Oh...." Comprehension dawned on his face.

"Is this the Mirror of Erised?" asked Hermione, reaching up and wiping the dust from the mirror's frame.

Harry didn't answer; he was too busy staring at his family. But this image was different from the one he had seen in his first year; there were far more people standing behind him, including Aunt Marge with a punch bowl on her head. Harry nearly laughed aloud at the sight of Lupin and Sirius, both wearing long frilly wedding gowns and linking arms with Doors, who was wearing a tux and a top hat.

He heard Ron snort behind him, and asked, "What's so funny?"

"Malfoy," Ron said. "He's wearing a kilt and a poncho and dancing with Millicent Bulstrode."

"Really?" said Harry, still staring at his own image.

"Well, that and I'm Head Boy and Minister of Magic, and Percy's cleaning toilets." He glanced back at Hermione, who was still transfixed.

"Do I want to know?" he asked.

"No," Hermione said dreamily. "Well, yes, I suppose. I've just won the Nobel Peace Prize for uniting wizards and Muggles, and for turning Voldemort into a dung beetle."

Harry and Ron burst out laughing--this last was so un-Hermione-like that it had to be the truth.

"As pleased as I am that you're enjoying your punishment," came a cold voice, "the party is over. Mr. Filch, if you will."

All three of them winced, and Harry turned to find himself confronted with the grotesque, grinning visage of the caretaker, his old tartan scarf wrapped around his head. Snape stood in the doorway like an overgrown, very malevolent bat.

"Think we're funny, do you, Potter?" the latter asked softly, leaving his post at the door and advancing on Harry. "You think this whole horrid situation is quite amusing, don't you?"

"No," said Harry, wondering uneasily if Snape and Filch just might be planning to hack them into tiny pieces or something. "It was.....the mirror."

"Mirror?" said Snape, that slightly unstable glint in his eye brightening. "What mirror?"

Harry pointed behind him. "That one," he said, more nervous than ever.

Snape's eyes darted past him to the mirror, and he froze. He whirled around and turned back, the comprehension that dawned on his face swiftly turning to horror. He went whiter than Harry would have thought possible, and shoving Filch in front of him he turned and fairly fled.

Ron blinked. "Ooooookkkaaaaayyyy......" he said. "Well, Hermione, you were half right; he's not losing it, he lost it long ago."

"No kidding," said Harry, who was too relieved to have escaped death to care about much else. "Remind me not to run into him down a dark hallway."

"Harry, don't run into Snape down a dark hallway," Ron said promptly. Harry smacked him.

"I wonder what he saw?" Hermione said thoughtfully, as they started down the corridor to the Great Hall.

"Probably told him he should have been a Gryffindor," Ron snickered to Harry.

The four extra tables in the Great Hall were laid with Hogwarts' second-best china, and most of the adult guests were already seated at them. Harry had no idea where they'd been or what they'd been doing all day, but this was the first time he'd seen any of them since breakfast.

"So," said Fred, materializing beside Harry as the three settled down at their table. "How was school?"

"Yah, we want to see if you're upholding our legacy," added George, popping up on Harry's other side. He hopped onto the bench next to Ron and tucked his napkin into his collar.

"So tell us," said Fred, grabbing Hermione's napkin and doing the same. "What have you done to further the cause of magical mischief today?"

Harry and Ron looked at one another and burst out laughing. "Well, we scared hell out of Snape about five minutes ago," said Ron, reaching for a jug of pumpkin juice. The food appeared as he did so, and there was a sudden silence as fifteen hundred people dove for drumsticks and mashed potatoes.

"Oh, do tell," said George, taking a bite out of his chicken leg and, ignoring his napkin, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his robe. Hermione made a slight noise of disgust.

"Er, well, _we_ didn't exactly do it," admitted Ron, pouring gravy over his Cornish game hen. "Snape kicked us all out of class and locked us in this little room, and we found the Mirror of Erised in there."

"The what?" asked Fred, stealing a piece of Ron's chicken.

"It's a mirror that shows you what you want most in the world," Harry said quickly, not wanting to launch into the whole explanation. The twins nodded sagely.

"Anyhow, we were all looking in it and laughing at what we saw, and then Snape and Filch came in, and I swear they were going to kill us or something." Ron paused to take a bite. "But the moment Snape gets a look in that mirror, he goes whiter than a sheet and fairly runs for his life. Dunno where he went, but I sure don't see him in here."

"Excellent!" said Fred and George together. "I'd say that's good enough to keep the legacy alive," added Fred.

"You say this mirror shows you whatever you want most, huh?" asked George, spraying bits of stuffing all over his plate. Hermione turned away, looking faintly green. 

"Yuh-huh," said Harry, through a mouthful of sprouts.

"Wonder what old Slimeball saw?" George snorted. He sent even more food particles hurling across the table, making Ginny edge away from him.

"Probably himself as a Boggart," sniggered Fred. "Ever since Lupin's class he's discovered he likes wearing women's clothes."

Even Hermione had to laugh at that one, though Harry could tell she was taking it a bit more seriously than the rest of them. He sighed. Trust her to make a big deal out of something that had just saved them from a lot of trouble.

He soon discovered he was quite right about Hermione's ferreting instincts, as he and Ron sat pouring over their Transfiguration homework in the common room that night. It was about ten thirty, and neither one of them was anywhere near finished with their assignment. Hermione, who never left her homework till the last minute and therefore had no business sitting up late, was curled up in an armchair with yet another enormous book, reading by the light of a wand held in her teeth.

"You know, it's strange," she said, spitting out her wand.

"What is?" asked Fred. He and George were sitting deep in conversation with Denis Creevey and Natalie McDonald, showing them the various ropes of the life of a proper prankster.

"Oh, why did you have to ask her that?" Ron moaned hopelessly.

Hermione glared at him. "I was wondering if there were any way to make the Mirror of Erised show someone else's vision," she said.

Ron rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Oh, Hermione, drop it," he snapped. "Who cares what Snape saw in that mirror? As if we don't have enough to keep us busy already."

"Amen," said Harry, copying down a likely-looking line about turning shoes into flank steak.

Hermione slammed her book shut. "Open your eyes, you idiot," she said. "Snape used to work for Voldemort, right? Everyone knows that."

"So?" said Ron, crossing his arms. 

"So what if he saw himself as, you know, a Voldemort lackey again? He's already unbalanced enough, Lord knows what a sight like that might make him do."

"You know, Hermione's got a point," said George, his expression so serious Harry knew it couldn't mean anything good. "It might make him wish he was still Voldie's boyfriend."

Harry laughed, but only a little; there was far too much running through his head to worry about anything else. Christmas was only a week and a half away....He had maybe eight days before Marge and Gilderoy and the rest of the guests showed up, ready to put all of them through hell. He had no idea if the Dursleys would turn up or not, but if the nasty, sinking feeling in his stomach was any indication, they would.

Hermione and the Weasleys were still bickering over the Mirror, so Harry closed his book and snuck off while they weren't looking. Too much excitement and nerves were churning inside him, and sitting around listening to his friends carp at one another wasn't going to help him.

He closed the portrait-hole quietly behind him, creeping off through the dim corridors. It was just late enough that he'd get in trouble for roaming the hallways, but he didn't care--Doors would have a way to help him, and if she didn't, she'd think of one right quick.

As he drew near her door some minutes later, he wasn't surprised to find the whole of her classroom lit up, as well as her more-than-bizarre enough rooms. Harry grinned as the sound of her glee-infused voice floated out to him, evidently talking to herself as she sorted her odd charges.

He paused as another voice answered her--he could see through the crack in the open door to her room that she wasn't alone after all; Lupin was sitting at her desk, scribbling something on a roll of parchment.

"I still say we tell them about the real thing," he was saying, dipping his quill in the ink. "It'll only make things more interesting, and it's obviously what Dumbledore wanted when he assigned it to them."

Doors, who was pruning some weird, spiky purple thing, shook her frizzy head. "No way," she said, smacking the plant as it started edging away from her.

"Why not?" demanded Lupin, corking his ink bottle and wiping his quill.

"Because," said Doors, sticking her head around the plant and shooting him her most evil grin. "Then we couldn't use it."

"Oh, you're evil," said Lupin, now smiling as well.

Harry stared at them. Quite apart from the fact that the two of them were planning on using the 'real' potion (that was something of a given), there was something almost odd about them. It took him a minute to figure out what it was, but he soon realized that Doors and Lupin had exactly the sort of simpatico Ron had with his brothers. What made it even weirder was that neither one seemed aware of it, as though they had evolved into siblinghood over time.

He shook his head and pushed the door open, grinning himself. "I heard that," he said, looking from one to the other. "It's not going to do any good keeping it from us, you know; Hermione'll crack it in plenty of time to wreak havoc."

Doors and Lupin laughed. "Oh, I know," said Doors. "But at least we won't get blamed for what she does with it."

"No?" said Lupin, sounding skeptical. "Somehow everything that goes wrong in this school seems to get blamed on us."

Doors's eyes twinkled. "Well, WE didn't teach anyone that recipe, now did we? That was all Snape's doing."

Harry made a face. "Oh, don't bring him up," he moaned. "Hermione's gone half ballistic over what he did after Potions today."

"Really?" said Lupin, waving his parchment about to dry it. "And what was that?"

Harry sighed; he thought everyone had heard by now. "He kicked Ron and Hermione and me out of class today and shut us in a room with the Mirror of Erised. He and Filch came in to do something horrid to us, but Snape got one look in that mirror and ran for his life, and now Hermione thinks he's going to murder us all in our beds...."

He trailed off--both Doors and Lupin were looking at him like someone had just died. "What?" he asked.

The two professors cast grave glances at one another. "Harry, that's bad," Doors said. "Hermione's right to worry, if everything's as you say it is. I don't care how much you think you know about Snape's...past, you haven't heard the half of it."

"What do you mean?" Harry demanded, more than exasperated with the whole affair.

Yet another glance between the professors. "Sit down, Harry," Doors said. Harry sat, not wanting to know where this was going.

"Listen to me, Harry," she said, gazing with unusual seriousness into his eyes. "I know Severus Snape, I've known him since he was a slimy-haired little pipsqueak first year, and if he's not rotten through then he's goddamn close. Have you ever heard what happened to his family?"

Harry shook his head.

"The whole lot of them got vivisected alive one night, when he was four years old. The Snape family always was notorious for their involvement in the Dark Arts, and nobody ever knew just where they got all their power from until their deaths." She looked at him in silence for a moment, as though willing him to make a response. When he did not, she simply continued. "They'd owed far too great a debt to the Phantoms, and when they couldn't pay it....Well..."

Harry shuddered. "So, why'd Snape live?" he asked.

To his surprise, a very odd, closed expression came over Doors's face. "Somebody got to him who believed in second chances," she said after a moment, giving Harry the suggestion that the subject was rather barred. "Anyhow, he didn't deserve his second chance, as all of us who met him at school soon found out. He almost cursed Remus at the start-of-term feast, just because Remus got a little--er--overzealous with his fondue."

"Huh?" Harry asked blankly.

"It flew off my fork and hit him in the forehead," Lupin said dryly, smirking a little.

"Right," Doors said. "Harry, my point is that Snape is one of those rare and very unfortunate people who are evil not by choice, but by nature. Whether he wants to be or not, he's a completely self-serving git, and even if he thinks he doesn't want an evil power boost, in his basest nature he does. And that probably scares the snot out of him."

She sighed. "Well, at least he's less likely to try something in the middle of this fiasco," she said.

There was a moment's silence. Finally, Lupin stood and said, "Well, it's getting late, so I'll get going. Lorna, remember we've got double lessons with the second years tomorrow." He tucked his roll of parchment into his pocket and left Harry and Doors alone.

"Harry, I'm assuming you had a reason for coming to visit," Doors said at last.

"Well, I did, but I've got more than enough to think about now," he said.

He must have looked as disturbed as he felt, for Doors clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Great, now look what I've done," she muttered. "Harry, here, have some cocoa and I'll explain a few things." She zapped the two of them steaming mugs of hot chocolate, and sitting beside him she put an almost motherly arm around his shoulders.

"Harry, honey, how far back can you remember?" she asked him after a moment.

Harry looked at her, startled. "I-I dunno," he said slowly. "I remember the night my parents died, a little. But not much after that, until I was maybe three or so and Aunt Marge came to visit."

He expected Doors to laugh, but she remained serious. "Do you remember me?" she asked.

Now Harry was really floored. "Remember you?" he said, staring at her. "I never met you before fourth year. Did I?"

Doors sighed and closed her eyes. "Harry, what I'm going to tell you is something I've never told anyone, not even Remus. You and I have met before now, when you were only four years old. I saved you from the hands of Snape, and basically destroyed his entire existence at the same time."

Harry gawked at her.

Doors seemed to notice this. "Dammit, I'm not crazy," she said, a hint of her normal cheer returning. "Snape always thought he should have married Lily, everybody but your parents knew it, and back before he'd learned to hate you he thought you should have been his. Combine that with his inherent hatred of James and I, and you've got one massive problem." 

She gave a short laugh. "And so, of course, that's exactly what he did. The Snape family had been one of the most powerful clan of purebloods ever known, more feared even than the Malfoys, and some traces of that lingered even after most of them died out. He had this huge manor house, the most horrid thing you could possibly imagine, and one night he stole you away from the Dursleys and took you there."

Harry continued to goggle. This was too much, FAR too much for him to process, and the only response he could manage to this extraordinary announcement was a croaked, "Why?"

Doors sighed again. "I don't really know," she said. "Maybe he just cracked, maybe he decided you were going to be his after all, and hang Dumbledore and Voldemort and anyone else who might wish otherwise. All I know is, he kidnapped you and I was the one who had the grave misfortune of having to go in and get you back."

She drained her mug and set it on the bedside table. "Look, Harry, I don't want you running around repeating this to anyone, not even Ron and Hermione. What I found in that house was enough to give me nightmares to this day. The Phantoms had entered to kill the Snape family, but what nobody knew, what Snape himself didn't know, was that They'd never left. That entire manor was riddled with Them, watching, waiting...."

She trailed off, and Harry suppressed a shudder; how anyone could live amid such a horror and not go completely starkers was beyond him. But then, he thought, as an image of Snape's latest antics popped up in his mind, maybe you couldn't.

"So...what are you saying?" he asked, suddenly very aware of the many shadows in the room.

"I'm saying that maybe what Snape saw in that mirror was....you," said Doors, fixing her piercing eyes on him. "A continuation of the night cut short, and one which would have ended very differently. Seeing as he now despises you, such a thought would naturally unhinge him, and in his current state of....mental fragility, who knows what he might do to get rid of that problem."

"Meaning me," Harry said grimly. "Why is it I can't get through one year without somebody trying to kill me? I mean, is it so much to ask?" He swirled the remains of his cocoa around in the mug, staring absently at the whirling patterns.

"Well......here, give me that," said Doors, taking the cup from him. She peered intently into it, her expression so frighteningly like Professor Trelawney's that Harry nearly choked.

"Oh dear," she said, in a voice so baleful Harry was sure she would say he was going to kick off.

"What?" he asked, almost tremulously.

"You're going to have one disgusting pimple by the end of the week."

And in spite of it all, both burst out laughing.

But now Harry had a new worry: Just what, if anything, Snape was planning to do to him during this wedding. Adding this on top of everything else, he probably couldn't have borne it, but he was most mercifully spared from thinking about it (or much else) by an unfortunate but nevertheless timely event.

Marge and Gilderoy arrived at the castle.

The Arrival

Harry awoke one morning, about five days after his discussion with Doors, to find the entire castle in such a state of chaos it was almost frightening. It took him about ten minutes to corner someone in the Great Hall and get a straight explanation out of them, but once he did, all his fears, woes, and general worries vanished at once, to be replaced by a wonderful and mischievous joy.

Lockhart's caravan was on its way.

He found Fred and George at the Gryffindor table, some of the only people who had bothered to sit down for breakfast. Each was wearing a grin of such terrible impiousness it almost made Harry shudder, until he remembered just who it was to be directed at.

"Morning, Harry old bean," said Fred, around a mouthful of eggs. "Ready for the games to begin?"

Harry nodded apprehensively; he wasn't sure if encouraging them would be a good thing or not. "Am I safer not knowing?" he said, grimacing.

Fred and George glanced at one another. "Can he be trusted?" George asked, turning and eying Harry critically.

"I don't know," said Fred, squinting and bringing his face very close to Harry's. He looked back at his brother, and the two chorused, "Nope."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief; given all the potential pranksters roaming the castle, it was probably better if they worked separately. Besides, he reflected, it would make things far more interesting.

A short while later, he, Ron, and Hermione were perched in the snow on the roof Gryffindor Tower with several dozen fellow Gryffindors, all clutching binoculars and scanning the miraculously-clear sky expectantly.

"There it is!" cried Seamus Finnigan, pointing.

If Harry had thought the first arrival was bizarre, it was nothing compared to what he was now confronted with. At least two hundred hideous, baby-pink and powder-blue winged chariots were flying full pelt for the castle, crashing into one another and jarring several of their green-faced occupants into losing their breakfasts. And at the very front, in a particularly pompous and over-decorated monstrosity, there stood Marjorie Dursley and Gilderoy Lockhart.

Harry's immediate reaction was so torn between an urge to laugh and an urge to gag that he wound up doing both, and making Hermione think he was having some sort of seizure. Harry was choking so hard that all he could do was point, and Hermione, following his finger, erupted into a very un-Hermione-like fit of sniggering. Colin Creevey raised his camera and began snapping pictures like mad.

Marge and Lockhart were wearing matching his-and-hers traveling robes, both pale lavender, and emblazoned across both their chests were flashing gold letters spelling 'bride' and 'groom'. Lockhart's hair was done in shining golden ringlets (Hermione opined that he looked like a very ditzy Michael Bolton), while Aunt Marge's robes billowed out in the wind like a circus tent. Both were wearing the most idiotic expressions imaginable, and seemed so absorbed with one another that they failed to notice the gales of laughter coming from the roof of Gryffindor Tower.

The caravan passed directly east of them, while Hermione patiently explained 80's Muggle music to Ron. Harry stared, fascinated, at the hordes of people who could only be related to Lockhart--scads of witches and wizards, all as blonde and effeminate as he, chattering in saccharine voices and wearing pale, frosty robes to match the chariots. Harry looked around eagerly for the Dursleys, wanting to see how they would be handling the ride--

"Oh, brother," he muttered, grinning.

Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley had a chariot all to themselves, with about four extra horses to haul Dudley's weight. Petunia was crying into Uncle Vernon's shoulder, the latter of whom was staring with stony-faced hate after Lockhart. Dudley was not immediately recognizable, as fear had him cowering in a large, Armani-suited blob in the corner of the chariot. All three looked distinctly ill, and as Harry watched Aunt Petunia raised her head, caught sight of Hogwarts, and nearly flew into hysterics.

Vernon tried (without much success) to calm her down, but his situation was made much harder when Dudley pointed and let out a yell. Vernon and Petunia whirled around to find themselves confronted with scores of young, fur-bundled witches and wizards, waving cheerfully from the roof. 

"D-D-Dad, it's Harry!" Dudley cried, his eyes bulging out of his fat head.

Harry grinned and waved his wand, with the effect that all three Dursleys passed out cold as their chariot hurtled onward. The Weasleys (and nearly all the rest of Gryffindor House) roared with laughter, tears streaming down their faces and steaming in the bitter cold.

"Come on, you guys, this is too good to miss," said Fred, and the Gryffindors leaped to their feet and scrambled back through the windows.

The scene in the main castle was like something from a nightmare. Everywhere, carbon copies of Lockhart swarmed like a hive of extremely conceited bees, all gushing like fire hydrants and sending every Slytherin within four floors running for their lives. Looking at the vast press of Lockhart's relatives, Harry couldn't blame them. Through the massive front doors he could see a number of sleds landing alongside the chariots, bearing the other half of the Hogwarts alumni who hadn't shown up at the beginning of the week.

"Harry, I can't stay down here, I'll die," muttered Ron, looking pale and ill as the various members of the Lockhart clan chirped to one another over all the rest of the noise. 

Harry wholeheartedly agreed, but he just had to find the Dursleys before making his escape.

"You stupid fiend, get off me! Let go of my wife!"

"Oh, there they are," he sighed, scrambling up onto the railing of the marble staircase and peering into the fray. Uncle Vernon was swinging Aunt Petunia's handbag at an extremely indignant Madam Pomfrey, who was attempting to put an unconscious Aunt Petunia onto a floating stretcher.

"Really!" the nurse shrieked, zapping the purse out of Uncle Vernon's hand. His face went suddenly pale, as though he had just remembered what it was he was surrounded by.

"Er," he squeaked, edging away from his wife. "Um, er....sorry?" he offered.

"That's quite all right."

Dumbledore had exited the Great Hall, and was staring down with amused pity at the two unconscious Dursleys. "I understand you're not exactly...accustomed...to magical medicine, but I assure you, we know what we're doing."

Uncle Vernon's mouth worked soundlessly, his huge purple face mottled with pale splotches as he stared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. Apparently the sight of Albus Dumbledore was just too much for him, for his consciousness fled far out into the hoolie boolies and he dropped like a stone.

"Good God," sneered a voice, directly behind Harry. "Are those your _relatives_, Potter?"

Harry turned and grinned at Malfoy. "Unfortunately," he said. "I deny it every chance I get."

Malfoy's face was contorted with disgust--Harry had noticed he had been far less clumsy and moony since his parents had shown up, though he still stared at Hermione every time she was within view.

"Really, Potter, I extend my sympathies," he said, his nose wrinkling. "I'd heard Muggles were disgusting, but this..."

Harry had snorted before he could help himself, but the sight of a whole new wave of Lockharts sent both he and Malfoy scurrying for cover. Harry hadn't made it very far, however, before Gilderoy himself entered, a blushing Marge on his arm.

"Oh, here comes the money shot," he muttered. "Hey Malfoy!" he called, as the Slytherin boy fought his impending vomit. "You thought they were bad, take a look at THAT."

Malfoy peered over the railing, and found himself confronted with what looked like a hulking, lavender-covered boulder. His face took on a look so torn between horror and revulsion that it sent Harry into fits of hysterical laughter.

"THAT is your aunt?" Malfoy demanded, sneering so much his lip had all but disappeared into his nose.

Harry chortled even harder. He had to admit that Marge had hit an all-time low as far as appearance was concerned--where she had once been square and mannish, she had now tried with a spectacular lack of success to make herself more feminine. Her mustache had been plucked or waxed or something, and her massive, florid face was surrounded by a number of kinky, unnatural curls that made her look like some grotesque Shirley Temple wannabe.

"God, no," he said, still sniggering helplessly. "She's Vernon's sister, no relation to me."

"Well, I see where that lump of lard you call a cousin gets it from," drawled Malfoy, before making a quick exit to the Slytherin dungeons.

Harry thought it would be best if he skipped out as well, so he darted quick as he could for Gryffindor Tower. He ran smack into Sirius along the way, who was still slapping his knees over the spectacle the Dursleys had treated him to.

"Nice one, Sirius," he muttered, before disappearing to the safety of the Gryffindor common room, where relative peace reigned.

****

His tranquility ended at about six o'clock that evening. He and Ron and Hermione, unwilling to deal with the madness that had pervaded the rest of the castle, had holed themselves up and started plotting. Well, he and Ron did, anyway; Hermione had betaken herself to the corner with yet another fat book and, oddly enough, the Marauder's Map. 

Harry and Ron had just completed blueprints for a trick wedding arbor when Doors stuck her head in the portrait-hole and said Harry was wanted in Dumbledore's office.

Harry grimaced. "Lemme guess," he said, laying down his quill. "The Dursleys, right?"

Doors shrugged. "Dunno," she said, in a voice that stated all too clearly that she did. "I'm supposed to go with you."

Harry sighed and followed her into the corridor, which was miraculously empty. Just how Dumbledore had managed to hide all the guests, he didn't know; nor, as he padded through the chill after Doors, did he particularly care. Much as he wished he could be spared the embarrassment of the scene Uncle Vernon would surely make, part of him was wildly curious to see just what the Dursleys would make of his aunt.

After many twists and turns, they stopped in front of the now-familiar stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's rooms.

"Acid pop," said Doors, and the statue sprang aside to let them up the staircase.

"Wonder what they want with me?" Harry said aloud, feeling it was no use pretending he didn't know why he was going. He was growing rather irritated--these people had given him a hard enough time at home, and it certainly wasn't _his_ idea to bring them here.

"Harry, honey, if I knew I'd probably skive off," Doors replied, tugging on the collar of her robes--it was much warmer in here, and Harry was beginning to regret wearing his long underwear. He chortled in spite of himself.

After a few minutes' climbing they reached a small stone door, and Harry realized with a gulp that total and complete hell awaited him beyond that door.

"Come in," called the Headmaster. He sounded amused.

Harry entered with some trepidation. Dumbledore was sitting at his large mahogany desk near a cheery fire, all his little silver decorations humming pleasantly. A frosted window looked out onto the grounds below, the ice etched with little fairy patterns. And sitting across from Dumbledore, in large armchairs, were--

"Hello, boy," snarled Uncle Vernon. He was looking rather nervous, with Petunia pale and resigned beside him and Dudley trying unsuccessfully to cower in a corner.

"Evening," said Harry, fighting an unaccountable urge to laugh. The sight of his very Muggle relatives sitting in the middle of Albus Dumbledore's office was, to say the least, a very strange one.

"Still runty, are we?"

Harry leaped about a foot in the air; Aunt Marge's voice had boomed from the shadows to his right, and he now caught sight of her hulking, Dudley-like form (now clad in pink) behind Uncle Vernon's armchair. He had no idea how to respond to this, but fortunately, Marge didn't seem to need one.

"Well, I suppose you'll do, anyhow." She glanced at Dumbledore, whose eyes were so full of mischief he could have passed for a Marauder. Harry looked at him too, bewildered.

"What Miss Dursley is trying to say, Harry, is that you and your cousin Dudley are to be altar servers in her wedding ceremony," Dumbledore said quietly. Marge beamed at Dudley, who whimpered and cowered even further into his corner.

Harry stared at him.

"Wha--at?" he croaked, his jaw dropping.

Doors hastily turned her laugh into a hacking cough, and squeezed his hand sympathetically.

"Exactly what I said, Harry," Dumbledore replied. "Your aunt and Professor Lockhart have been planning their wedding party since before they arrived. Your Aunt Petunia is the maid of honor--" Petunia gave a dry sniff "--your cousin is to be the ring bearer and your fellow altar server, and Professors McGonagall and Trelawney will be bridesmaids. All of you will be meeting in two days' time for the rehearsal, so I thought it best to warn you in advance."

Harry was floored. It was bad enough having the Dursleys here, and even worse that they had brought Lockhart, but forcing him to be a part of it? That was just cruel.

And what about the rest of them? The thought of McGonagall in some frilly bridesmaid's dress was enough to make him nearly choke, and as for her and Trelawney.....Well, that was just asking for trouble.

Gradually Harry became aware that the whole room was staring at him.

"Earth to Harry," whispered Doors, nudging him in the ribs.

"Er," he said eloquently.

"Which brings me to Lorna here," Dumbledore continued. "I've had a request that you design the floral decorations, but that's not entirely why I've called you here. I don't believe you've met Harry's--er--longtime guardians."

Doors's disturbingly green eyes darted over to the Dursleys, all of whom stiffened.

"So you're the famous Dursleys," she said, her odd voice suddenly ominous. "I've heard _so _much about you." She offered Uncle Vernon a spiderlike hand, which he inadvertently shrank away from. "Lorna Doors. Harry's other aunt."

The Dursleys stared at her. Aunt Petunia made a small squeaking noise.

"Well, anyhow," said Doors, dropping her hand. "I believe--er--congratulations are in order. Congratulations." She cocked her frizzy head to one side, her eyes boring into Aunt Petunia's frightened blue ones. "It's always nice to meet the in-laws."

At the word 'in-laws', Uncle Vernon's face went splotchier than Harry had ever seen it, and Petunia looked as though she were going to faint. Doors hustled him from the room before either of them could burst out laughing, leaving Dumbledore to undo the mess he had knowingly created.

"Oh, Harry, you lived with _them_?" Doors chuckled as they descended the staircase. "My God, I'm sorry."

Harry, who was still pulling out of his shock at Dumbledore's announcement, muttered absently, "Not half as sorry as I am." He was silent for a moment, pondering, and then, 

"How did you get chosen to fix the flowers? Marge and Lockhart've never met you."

Doors snorted. "I knew old Dumbledore wouldn't let me off that easy," she said, as they passed into the hallway. "I got left out of the wedding party, but he's going to make sure I've still got access to the goings-on."

"Is he _trying_ to sabotage this thing?" Harry wondered aloud.

"Naw. He's just out for a good time." 

The Rehearsal

Breakfast the next morning was one of the most trying ordeals Harry had ever gone through.

The Great Hall was now so crowded that moving was nearly impossible, and even getting through the door was a battle. A second extra table had been set up alongside all the house tables, and even the staff had to make room for some visitors. Harry overheard somebody saying Dumbledore had hired out house-elves from nearly every wizarding manor in Britain, to cope with the added cooking and cleaning such a throng was needing.

He found himself wedged between Fred and Ron, his appetite all but vanishing at the sight of so many Lockharts in one place. He had broken the news of his unfortunate wedding-party status to Ron and Hermione the night before, after first foreswearing them not to tell a soul. Ron had laughed hysterically, while Hermione looked too torn between horror and hilarity to offer many words of comfort.

"Lovely," Harry thought, wincing as he was reminded of tomorrow's unpleasant prospects. He dreaded the thought of what sort of outfit Marge and Lockhart would have cooked up for him, but one glance at McGonagall assured him he wasn't the only one this had occurred to. 

"Pssst! Hey, Harry! You think Dumbledore did that on purpose?"

George was pointing at the staff table, where the Dursleys sat still and stony-faced, and Harry noticed, for the first time, that all three of them had been wedged between Snape and McGonagall. Snape kept glancing at Uncle Vernon as though he were sprouting some sort of fungus (in between shooting dirty looks at the Marauders, who were enchanting a scrambled egg tower in the middle of the table), while McGonagall looked ready to burst with disgust at Petunia's subdued whimperings.

"No, that's a little too mean, even for him," chuckled Harry. He marveled at how little fuss the Dursleys had put up after their initial arrival, though he suspected the three of them were still a bit too shocked to react properly to their surroundings. 

He ate quickly, wanting to make a swift escape back to Gryffindor Tower, but no such luck--he had scarcely stood up before McGonagall had him cornered and was hauling him off to an 'emergency meeting'.

"But--Professor--I--" he protested, as she dragged him along at an ungodly pace. 

"Shut it, Potter, we don't have much time," McGonagall almost snapped, and Harry got the impression she was almost nervous. She stopped quite suddenly and pushed open a section of wall, pulling Harry into what was clearly one of the many derelict rooms sported by Hogwarts.

The wall slid shut behind them, and Harry found himself faced with massive draperies of brilliant crimson, hung over the walls and draped across much of the furniture. Seated around it were various students, guests, and teachers, several of whom looked as bewildered as he felt, and if he wasn't mistaken, four or five house-elves bobbed behind the legs of a great red armchair.

"Go on, Potter, sit," said McGonagall. He sat next to Doors, who was picking absently at a crimson thread, and watched as McGonagall stood at one end of the room. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and the wall opened a moment later to admit a very unsettled-looking Snape.

"Good," she said, sitting on an old trunk. "Now, we haven't got much time, but we've got to give this a shot."

"Give _what_ a shot? Why are we here?" demanded Harry, feeling he deserved some explanation. In the corner, Professor Trelawney sniffed.

Professor McGonagall looked grim. "Belt up a moment, Potter, and I'll tell you. Now, I know none of us wants anything to do with this--"

Harry opened his mouth, but McGonagall waved him silent again.

"--but I don't see any way around it, short of suicide, that is."

"A more than viable option," muttered Snape.

Someone snorted.

"All right, I'm with Harry," said Professor Trelawney, putting away her sequined handkerchief. "What is the meaning of all this?"

McGonagall eyed her beadily. "Really, Sybil, I was sure your Inner Eye would have told you that one long ago," she said, earning several smiles around the room. Trelawney sniffed again.

"We are here," McGonagall said, ignoring her, "to discuss just what is to be done about this whole wedding party business. Every one of us in this room is directly involved with it in some fashion or another, and we're going to have to band together if we don't want that odious bridal pair murdering us all."

"Oh, no," Harry moaned. "Is that what all this is about?"

"Of course it is," McGonagall said briskly. "You don't honestly think we're going to let them get the better of us, do you?" Harry didn't know what to say to this, so she continued.

"All right. First off, those of us unfortunate enough to be included in the wedding party--" Harry saw Professor Trelawney grimace "--must know where to draw the line. We can't really veto any hideous outfits they might concoct for us, unless they cross the lines of decency. We must, however, stick together against any degrading ceremonial acts."

"What, like a sort of union?" Harry asked, not liking the sound of 'degrading ceremonial acts'.

"Well, yes, sort of," said McGonagall. "We must meet and discuss any decision made by our collective enemy, and stand together in defense if one of us is put on the spot. We'll vote on it, if needs be."

"I vote strike," murmured Snape. "Strike or revolt, I really don't care. But if that half-brained imbecile thinks I'm going to be his best man--"

Harry hooted. "You're kidding!" he cried, quite forgetting who he was laughing at. "Lockhart chose _you_ as his best man? He's even stupider than I thought."

"Well, given his method of regaining his memory, that's not surprising," said Doors, yawning and rubbing her forehead.

Harry looked at her. He'd been wondering about that very thing ever since he first heard about this nightmare, but in all the hubbub nobody had bothered to tell him. "And how was that?" he asked.

McGonagall put her head in her hands, fighting either exasperation or laughter. "Lorna, you tell him," she said.

Doors grinned. "Well, somehow old Gilderoy got hold of a bunch of his old books, and no sooner had he read them than he decided it was up to him to return as warrior against the Dark Side of the Force."

"You're kidding," Harry said again, snickering.

Doors's mouth twitched. "Unfortunately not," she said. "For all he knows, he really did all that stuff, and I'm just waiting for the nasty shock he'll face when he finds out he didn't."

Even McGonagall couldn't suppress a wry smile at that one. "Well, anyway--"

She was cut off mid-sentence by Professor Flitwick, who stuck his head in the door and squeaked that the Lockharts were coming, and most of them were carrying fabric swatches.

"Dear God," said McGonagall, paling. "All right, I advise everyone to hide until lunch, unless you want those....those..._people_ after you for party fittings."

A collective shudder ran around the room, before the throng disbanded and scattered to different points of the castle.

****

Harry hotfooted it back to Gryffindor Tower, where he spent the remainder of the morning deep in conversation with Ron and Hermione. Both of them agreed he'd fallen on incredibly hard luck, but he'd just have to make the best of it until they found out what Fred and George had planned. Midway through their discussion, Hermione heaved a sigh.

"What is it, Herm?" Harry asked.

Hermione flushed a bit. "Oh--it's nothing. It's just that, well, ever since we found out about this wedding, everyone and their mother has been making plans to sabotage it. Fred and George are going to be absolute nightmares, I don't want to _know_ what Denis Creevey and Natalie McDonald are up to, and half of Ravenclaw's been devoting the last three months to the cause of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Don't you all think it's a little--well--mean?"

Harry and Ron stared at her as though she'd gone starkers. "Hermione, this is GILDEROY LOCKHART and AUNT MARGE, for crying out loud," Harry said after a moment. "Under any other circumstances, sure, it'd be the meanest thing we could do, but let's face it, both of them deserve it."

"I suppose you're right," Hermione said unconvincingly. "I mean, I've heard all your horror stories about Aunt Marge, and Lockhart certainly earned it after what he did second year, but still.......to ruin the happiest day of someone's life like that; it just doesn't sit right, somehow."

Ron leaned back in his chair and threw a pillow at her. "Don't tell me you're going like Trelawney," he laughed. "'Oh, I've got a horrid feeling about this, the spirits are aligned against us'........"

Hermione threw the pillow back at him, scoring at direct hit in his face. "Shut up," she said, half amused and half indignant. "Lord, I'd rather take Harry's place as altar server than wind up like that old biddy."

The trio's laughter was cut short by Professor McGonagall, who clambered into Gryffindor Tower with a grim expression on her face.

"Come along, Potter," she said, her voice even grimmer than her countenance. "We've got a rehearsal to go to."

Harry felt his stomach drop. He glanced desperately at Ron and Hermione, who were looking at him as though we were about to be led to the slaughter.

"All right," he said heavily, getting to his feet.

McGonagall must have seen his plea for help, for she said, "Weasley and Granger can come with you, if they'd like." The ghost of a wry smirk flitted across her severe face. "For moral support."

The four of them exited into the hallway, Harry's heart somewhat lightened by the fact that he wouldn't be facing that nightmare without reinforcements.

McGonagall swept along ahead of them, fiddling with the clasp on her cloak. "Why are you wearing that thing, Professor?" Harry asked without thinking. "It's not THAT cold in here."

McGonagall shot him a withering stare. "You'll see soon enough," she said, in a voice so doom-laden it undid most of the good of Ron and Hermione's presence. He started to ask what she meant by that, but ook one look at her face and thought better of it.

He approached the Great hall as though it were a cave of trolls, regarding the cheerful chatter emanating from it with deepest suspicion. He half considered turning and bolting back to Gryffindor Tower, but McGonagall had shoved the doors open before he could take a step.

It was like a scene from a nightmare. Lockharts were swarming to and fro, posing, annoying, and generally tormenting the members of the wedding party so it was a wonder there hadn't been murder already.

He spotted Professor Trelawney through the mess, and saw at once why McGonagall was wearing her cloak. The Divination teacher was wearing a long, ruffly dress of ice-pink, with flounces of baby-blue and a mint-green sash tied in a flamboyant bow. She still had on all her usual jewelry, most of which clashed horribly with her outfit, and one of her gown's enormous puffed sleeves was only half pinned on.

"Oh. Dear. God."

Hermione was staring at Professor Trelawney with an uplifted expression on her face; she seemed to be etching the image into her memory forever.

"Now that's what I call entertainment," Ron muttered, sniggering. "We'd better make sure Colin Creevey gets a picture of that at the wedding."

Harry would have joined in, but his terror of what his own outfit would look like quenched any humor he might have seen in the situation. His fear was only intensified by Dudley, who waddled into view wearing a powder-blue tuxedo that had very likely been Uncle Vernon's in the seventies. This image only sent Ron and Hermione into even greater transports of glee.

"Come along, Potter," McGonagall said, her face set. "You've got to get fitted as well."

Hermione and Ron stopped laughing at once, both staring in almost painful sympathy at him. McGonagall led him off toward a curtained corner, where several blonde women who could only be Lockhart's cousins were pinning up Aunt Petunia's hem. Her dress was entirely ice-pink, and so frilly she looked like a china doll.

"Oh, it's you," she snapped, as Harry nervously approached the gaggle of seamstresses. McGonagall sniffed disapprovingly--Harry had gotten the impression very early on that the practical professor had very little use for Aunt Petunia.

"Oh! HERE you are, sweetheart!"

Harry wheeled around to find himself faced with yet another member of the Lockhart clan, giggling with delight and clutching a large package to her more than ample chest. "Right over here, darlin', that's it, we'll have this done in a jiffy--"

He found himself standing atop a dressmaker's stool, while the overweight witch opened her package and shook out its contents.

To Harry's immense relief, it was a simple white altar server's robe that was pulled over his head, rather like his school robes and the one's he'd seen on the Dursleys' few trips to church. They were made of some thick, rich material he was unused to, and he shot a look of pure gratitude at Ron and Hermione as his seamstress began pinning.

He glanced over at Aunt Petunia, who was gazing sourly at nothing while her gown was worked on. Her fear of the wizarding world seemed to have abated somewhat, though the same could not be said for her disdain of it. Still Harry thought it safe enough to venture at least one question, which had been tormenting him since he first heard about this wedding over the summer.

"Er--Aunt Petunia? Just how did Marge and Lockhart meet, anyway?"

Petunia's face screwed up as though she'd just swallowed a lemon. "Hmph," she sniffed.

"Well?" said Harry, feeling he could push it safely.

"It was a dog show," Petunia almost snarled, flinching as a tape began measuring her collar all by itself--Harry could see that behind her sneering ill-temper lay the look normally reserved for deer caught in oncoming headlights. "You know we've never told your about your--abnormality--" (here several nearby witches shot her dirty looks) "--and we took it rather for granted that she knew nothing."

"And she did?" Harry asked, amused.

"As I said, it was the dog shows," Petunia grimaced--she had always hated animals. "She took that Ripper of hers to one last spring, and met her fiancee there. She's known about your kind for years, that Colonel Fubster she always went on about is one. He was the one who told her about the show in the first place, but being an old ninny he forgot to inform her it was for--you people--only. So she went and took that foul bulldog, and she met this Lockwart fellow."

"Lockhart," Harry corrected automatically, before losing his powers of speech altogether. Quite apart from hearing Aunt Petunia say 'ninny', the implications of her little bombshell were staggering. Aunt MARGE knew about wizards? She must have been furious when she found out Vernon and Petunia had been harboring one under their roof for fourteen years......

But why hadn't she said anything to him in Dumbledore's office? Surely finding out Harry was a wizard would do _something _to change her feelings toward him, right?

"There you are, dear. Now go and find your place before the practicing starts, Heaven knows what a madhouse this will be without a little cooperation."

His seamstress's voice cut through his reverie (that seemed to be happening to him a lot this year), as she picked him up like a rag doll and set him neatly on the floor. Harry could tell she was about to pinch his cheeks or do something equally awful, so he darted off toward Ron and Hermione before she got the chance.

"Not bad," said Ron, giving him the once-over. "At least you don't look like that cousin of yours."

Harry snorted and looked over at Dudley, and realized with a start that the rotund boy was staring back at them, an incredibly peculiar expression on his face--Harry couldn't tell if he was going to be sick or what, but he looked like he'd just taken a bite out of a particularly nasty Every Flavor Bean.

"What on earth is up with him?" he asked, incredulous--the last time he'd seen anyone look like that, they wound up bent over a toilet for half the night.

"He looks like he's going to lose his lunch," mused Ron, as Dudley caught them looking back and quickly trained his attention elsewhere. Neither one of them could figure out just where elsewhere, however, until Hermione, who had disappeared somewhere with Professor McGonagall, came skidding back into the hall.

"Phew," she said, flicking hair from her eyes. Her face was somewhat flushed, and she breathed as though she'd been running. "Who knew weddings were so complicated?"

"Where'd you go?" Ron asked, looking rather askance at her. When Harry didn't echo his demand Ron glanced over at him, but Harry was far too preoccupied to notice--

"Oh, uh-oh," he muttered, biting back the wave of sniggers that was fighting its way up his throat. He could feel his face turning red as both Ron and Hermione looked at him quizzically, but he couldn't help it--on top of all the present madness, this was just too much.

As soon as Hermione had dashed into the hall, Dudley's piggy eyes had widened, and so uplifted was the expression that crossed his face it was nearly enough to make Harry lose _his_ lunch. His fat cheeks pinked, and his mouth curved into the most idiotic grin imaginable.

"Um, why don't we go.....over here?" said Harry, forcefully propelling both Ron and Hermione around the other side of the fitting area. The pair shot him a mutual look of confusion, which he quickly averted by muttering, "I don't want Marge getting ahold of me if I can help it."

This mollified Hermione (somewhat), but Ron was still looking at him suspiciously. Harry quickly mouthed, "Dudley!", and ducked as the real Marge came sailing into the Great Hall like some enormous, chiffon-draped battleship. She had on some dripping, pre-wedding dress, so covered in pearls and lace she might as well have been a Muggle parade float, her stiff hair arranged in even more Shirley Temple curls than it had been on her arrival.

Ron and Hermione ducked as well, Hermione to hide her laughter and Ron, his absolute horror at what Harry had just implied. Lockhart came trotting after his bride a moment later, his golden hair flying in a way that made Hermione wince.

"It's not fair that that man should have nicer hair than I do," she muttered, flicking a stray piece of taffeta out of her way. 

"He'd make a better woman than Marge, that's for sure," returned Harry. Looking at the two of them was like watching one of those Nature shows he used to see at the Dursleys, where the wild animals all converged to kill something smaller than they. He then realized with a gulp that he was the shortest person in the wedding party.

"Places, people, places!" cried Lockhart, somehow managing to smile as he did so. "Come along, now, we haven't got all night--"

He started making goo-goo eyes at Marge, at which point half the Hall averted their gaze. When Harry at last regained the courage to look back, however, what he saw was enough to make him wish he hadn't.

Lockhart had left off goggling at Marge, but Marge was fairly drooling at something in the far corner. She made an even worse lovesick fool than Dudley, and Harry felt a profound pity for whatever it was that had earned such a look from her.

"Good Lord," muttered Hermione, watching her with disgust. She probably would have said a good deal more, save that at that moment Ron shoved her forcefully out of sight behind one of the curtains.

"Hey--" she started, but was cut off as Dudley waddled past, still grinning stupidly and picking at his wide lapel. 

"Hermione, DON'T ASK," said Ron, as she emerged, extremely indignant, from the folds of pale blue gauze. "Trust me, you _really_ don't want to know."

Hermione snapped something in reply, but Harry wasn't listening--Marge was looking moonier than ever, and he was just dying to see what she was looking at.

"Darling, who is that?" she asked, tugging on Lockhart's sleeve so hard he nearly flipped over and pointing.

Harry watched with bated breath, with the kind of sick fascination that draws one to watch a bug drown, and then--

"Who, that, dearie? Why, that's--"

"--most definitely _not_ your best man."

Harry choked, and nearly fell over with laughter--Snape had emerged from the busy throng, still dressed in black and looking in need of a shower. Lockhart's beaming smile faltered a bit, but Harry could practically see hearts growing in Marge's beady eyes.

"D'you--" he started to Ron and Hermione, but the latter, sounding sickened, cut him off.

"Oh, yeah," she said, elbowing a chortling Ron.

"Um, Harry, we'd love to stay and help you and all, but this is gonna kill me," he snickered, his face red. He started sneaking toward the exit, but Harry caught him by the collar and looked on in fascination.

"Why, whatever do you mean, Severus, old friend?" asked Lockhart, seemingly unaware that his bride was drooling down the front of her dress. "Dumbledore said--"

"The Headmaster does not speak for me," Snape said coldly. "I want no part in this--ceremony--and if you think I'm wearing that creation your cousin has the nerve to call dress robes, think again." The now-familiar, half-mad glint in his eyes flared, and seemed to penetrate even Lockhart's thick skull. He took a step backward, his grin fading even more, and glanced nervously from side to side. By now a fairly sizeable group of people had stopped to watch the goings-on, including, Harry noticed, the Marauders and their decoration crew, who were poring over blueprints at the staff table.

"Look, my good man," said Lockhart, regaining his composure and adjusting his jade-green hat. "Dumbledore told me it was all arranged, that you had agreed to--"

"Yes, agreed to," broke in Marge. Snape started, as though seeing her for the first time (a thing next to impossible when in the same room with her), and Harry watched a spasm of horror flit across his face as he realized she was sizing him up like a flank steak.

"Of course you've agreed, you handsome devil. You wouldn't want to ruin my wedding, now would you?" Marge attempted a pout.

By now the entire Hall was watching, waiting to see Snape's response to this extraordinary pronouncement. Snape, however, looked remarkably as though he were about to faint.

He probably would have done precisely that, had not Petunia, her lurid sash fluttering, stormed over.

"Honestly!" she snapped, not seeming to care it was a bunch of wizards she was berating. "Could we get on with it already? It's already past Duddy's bedtime, and I still haven't given him his warm milk."

The younger members of the assembly snickered and looked at Dudley, who blushed redder than Ron's hair and looked quickly away from Hermione, at whom he had been staring for the last ten minutes. Harry was willing to bet all the gold in Gringotts he was wishing his mother would drop dead right about now.

Marge sniffed, her drooling reverie clearly shattered. "Really, Petunia, you've been horrid ever since Gilderoy and I got engaged. I don't recall anyone being as snippy as you are when YOU got married."

That was the last straw for Petunia. All the tension, all the fear and shock and horror that had been building up in her since the Dursleys' arrival at Hogwarts, seemed to pour forth in a torrent of shrieking. "THAT'S BECAUSE I DIDN'T MARRY A BLOODY WIZARD, YOU IDIOT!" she roared, her blonde hair coming loose from its French braid. "THESE PEOPLE ARE **_ABNORMAL_**! Their kind and our kind don't mix, it's unnatural, and ever since you met that Lockwart you've been acting just like my sister. IT'S OBSCENE!"

She glared at Marge, breathing hard, as though she'd been dying to say all this for ages. The whole Hall stared at her, some aghast and some ready to cheer, as Marge gawked at her infuriated sister-in-law.

"Well, it's true," Petunia snapped, realizing she was the center of attention. "And you," she added, almost as an afterthought, shooting a dirty look at Snape. "For pity's sake take a shower, you filthy layabout." And turning on her heel she stormed from the Hall, one of her high heels breaking on the way.

Dead silence reigned for a full minute. Even Lockhart was at a loss for words, as he and all the rest of the stock-still crowd stared after Petunia.

"Well then," muttered a little man in black, who must have been the vicar. He shakily adjusted his glasses. "If you will......Miss McGonagall and Miss Trelawney, you will start here...."

The rest of the rehearsal passed in something of a daze for Harry, who had in the past week and a half been hit by so many shocks and bombshells that his brain finally overloaded and quit registering much of anything. He allowed himself to be led through the motions of the ceremony (which Snape studiously ignored, opting instead to exchange stinging barbs with the Marauders over his state of hygiene), but it was doubtful if he would remember one jot of it when it came time for the real thing. 

He escaped to Gryffindor Tower as quick as he could, half-stumbling in his stupor and wanting nothing more than to hide until this whole affair was over. 

Scrabbling through the portrait hole, he tripped over his altar server's robes and landed flat on his face, his hands numb as he picked himself up and collapsed into a chair. It was now so late that the common room was all but deserted, the fire burned to embers. The room's only other occupants, Harry surmised after a quick glance, were Ron and Hermione, who looked as though they had tried waiting up for him and failed. Ron's head was rested on some sort of blueprint, while Hermione's finger still held her place in a book.

"What a nightmare," he muttered, kicking off his sneakers. "Boy, I hope Snape cracks and poisons both those idiots....."

He was snoring before he could fully savor the possibility.

****

His dreams were troubled, filled with images of Marge hitched up in a wedding gown and Dudley drooling all over Hermione's dress robes. Just as the ceremony was about to start, the vicar exploded, sending all the crowds into a panic, and in the background Fred and George could be heard snickering about the triumphs of the triple-W. 

"Come with me, dearie," said a voice, and Harry found himself confronted with his seamstress, wearing Professor Trelawney's glasses and jewelry and, for some odd reason, Quirrel's purple turban. Her voice was different; gurgly, and raspy enough to be a man's, and Harry felt his feet dragging after her against his will.

"Where--" he heard himself asking, but his oddly-bedecked guide silenced him with a wave of her hand. Literally silenced him; Harry tried to venture another question and found his voice was mysteriously absent. The large woman led him up a number of twisted staircases he had never seen, all dark and chill and feeling as though they'd been deserted for about a century.

"Yes, dearie, here it is," his guide cackled, stopping near the top of a high, cold tower. "Watch--"

And Harry, still mute, watched on in confusion and horror as the first wave of an army appeared marching in the distance. At first they looked almost ordinary, until the line moved closer and he noticed patches of rotting flesh, dead eyes leering and feet shuffling unsteadily over the ground. He was looking at a horde of--

"Zombies," Harry croaked, his voice suddenly returning.

"Minions of my master," the seamstress whispered, her voice grating and full of dirt. "Summoned by one deluded by love, to reclaim their loss and vanquish the traitors."

The army was drawing ever nearer, and Harry felt a skin-crawling revulsion pass over him--he had to get away from here, had to warn somebody about the nightmare that was bearing down on Hogwarts, but his feet were rooted to the spot and all he could do was--

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!"

He jerked awake with a start, mercifully torn from his troubled dreams. Ron and Hermione had been jolted from slumber as well, and were looking around in bleary-eyed confusion.

"Where's the murder?" Ron mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"AAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!!"

That brought them all wide awake. The door to the boys' dormitory slammed open somewhere above them, and a moment later Dean, Seamus, and Neville came tumbling down the stairs.

"What the--" started Seamus, but he was cut off by a crash from the girls' dormitory, followed by Lavender and Parvati, looking white and scared in their bathrobes.

"Somebody's getting killed out there!" squealed Lavender, stumbling over Neville. 

"Gee, you think?" Ron muttered acidly, though he looked as worried as any of them.

"That's it," said Harry, as a furious scuffling echoed through the pipes. He marched over to the portrait-hole and shoved it open, his white robes flapping.

"Harry!" cried Hermione, aghast. "Have you gone mad? You're just going to run out there?"

Harry rounded on her, his glasses slipping to the end of his nose. "Well, if it's not Marge or Lockhart getting murdered out there, at least it'll give me a chance to get one of them." And he hopped into the corridor before anyone could protest.

It was pitch black, without a trace of moonlight shining through any of the windows, and from the sound of it he wasn't the only one who had taken to the hallways. Tripping over his robes (and just about everything else along the way), he raced into one of the main passages, and found it crowded with fearful-looking students in their pajamas.

Well, the ones at the back were fearful--if Harry didn't know any better, he'd swear the ones around the corner on the entrance hall balcony were laughing rather than whimpering. 

"Is it too much to ask that all this is because the Tastee Freeze truck finally arrived?" muttered Sirius, appearing beside him and rubbing his eyes. His hair was stuck in so many different directions it might as well have been Harry's, and he had thrown on a very decrepit-looking bathrobe over his equally ancient pajamas.

"Probably," Harry muttered, hurrying down the corridor toward the entrance hall.

"Honestly, Sirius, do you _ever_ think of anything other than food?" Lupin asked, materializing on Harry's other side in a much more presentable wrap. His wand was lit in his hand, his face tense and looking so distracted that he barely dodged the door that flew open a second later.

Doors stumbled into the passage, tripping over the hem of a long flannel thing that could, with some imagination, have passed for a nightdress. Her hair was absolutely indescribable, and she too held her wand. "Well, for once I'm with Sirius," she said, as the four moved on. "It'd better be a Tastee Freeze truck, 'cause whatever it is, I'm gonna eat it."

Sirius snorted, but at that moment the quartet rounded the corner and found themselves faced with the high balcony of the entrance hall, which was so jammed with students and guests they couldn't have gone father if they'd wanted to. Those nearest them seemed as confused as they were, but the crowd near the front were emitting noises no one could mistake for sputters of terror.

"Move aside, move aside, teachers coming through," Sirius said lazily, borrowing Lupin's wand and waving a path through the crowds. Harry made out Mrs. Finnigan in the press, her freckled face broken into a smile and merry blue eyes twinkling, and instant relief flooded over him, followed by a twinge of annoyance--a person couldn't even get through one peaceful night in this madhouse.

"All right, what seems to be the p--"

Sirius halted. He and Lupin had reached the balcony railing, but whatever they saw was enough to strike them both momentarily dumb.

"Oh, DEAR," sighed Lupin, his mouth twitching.

Harry and Doors glanced at one another, and started shoving their way toward the front of the press. Doors elbowed Lupin aside and dragged Harry into the railing, and the two saw at once the cause for Lupin's 'Oh, dear'.

Snape stood furiously near the statue of Aelfwald the Schlepper by the doors to the Great Hall, deprived of his wand and being forcibly restrained by McGonagall and Professor Sinistra, both wearing wooly dressing gowns. Near the opposite end of the hall hovered Marge, giggling like a drunken schoolgirl, and clinging to the chandelier in the center of the ceiling was a white-faced, extremely horrified-looking Peeves. Marge's lipstick was smeared all over his face, and Harry realized with awful clarity just what it was that had happened--Marge, (no doubt thinking to catch Snape on his own) had somehow managed to plant a big wet one not on him, but on Peeves.

"Oh, poor Peeves," Harry muttered, wincing sympathetically.

"No kidding," snorted Doors, shaking with laughter.

"Get that--woman--out of here!" Snape was snarling, still struggling to escape the death grip of McGonagall and Sinistra. Harry had never seen him so infuriated, but then he had to admit that the unwanted affections of Marjorie Dursley were enough to send anyone round the bend. "She's insane! Filthy Muggle, wandering about the castle at night like some perverted--"

"Perverted?" McGonagall cut him off. There was wry amusement in her voice, as though even she couldn't fail to see the humor in the situation. "And just what were _you_ doing up at this hour, Severus?"

Snape was lost for words, but not for long. Marge wiggled her fingers at him and cooed, "Oh, were you looking for little old me? How sweet of you, trying to make certain I was safe--"

"I was doing nothing of the kind, you dolt!" Snape snarled, his face reddening as the throng let out a collective snicker. "If you must know, I was--"

He glanced up at the balcony and stopped, his face purpling before it paled to the hue of old Donegal china. He was fingering something in his pocket, and seemed momentarily oblivious of McGonagall and Sinistra pinning him to the spot.

Harry felt a bucket of ice cascade into his stomach--_Snape was looking right at him. _He had not forgotten Doors's words about the Mirror of Erised, though what with one thing and another they certainly weren't foremost in his mind, but at that moment he recalled with full clarity just what she had said about its effect on Snape's already fragile sanity. Though he had doubted Snape would dare try anything in the midst of such utter chaos, he had apparently been wrong--the last time the Potions master had done any nighttime wandering, the consequences on Harry (and just about everybody else) had been little short of disastrous.

"I--I was just checking on things," he went on, after a rather noticeable pause. The crowd murmured, and Sinistra and McGonagall were looking at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Checking on things," echoed McGonagall, eying him with a nurse-quickly-the-straight-jacket! sort of look. "Severus, why don't we take you to see Madam Pomfrey. You've had quite a shock, and I think it would be in everyone's best interest if she checked you over--"

"No!" Snape snapped, in a voice much more like his old sneering self. "I assure you, Minerva, I'm quite all right. I simply remembered some--business--I had left unattended, and thought it best to complete it before the madness that is Christmas Eve descended upon us." His eyes flickered over the balcony once more.

Doors and Lupin exchanged a grave glance, before casting a fleeting, worried look at Harry, who gulped. He had a feeling he knew exactly what Snape's 'unfinished business' might be, and it made him extremely glad he didn't keep a water glass beside his bed.

From the expression on McGonagall's face, she wasn't buying this any more than the rest of the crowd. "No, Severus, I really think you ought to--"

"Oh, he's _fine_."

Petunia, clad in a flowered robe and slippers, came marching in from a lower corridor. She cast a very nasty look in Marge's direction. "My dear sister-in-law has been rather, shall we say, _grabby_ of late. Why, just the other day I caught her and one of the grooms in an extremely unflattering--"

"Petunia!"

Vernon came storming after her, his slippers on the wrong feet and hair standing on end. His face was puce with anger, his eyes heavy and purple from lack of sleep. "How dare you talk about my sister like that?" he demanded--or, rather, thundered. One of his cheeks was ticking.

Petunia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Vernon," she snapped. "The woman's marrying one of _them_, I hardly think she deserves any respect or discretion on our part. She's just tried mauling the best man, for God's sake!"

"I'm _not_ the best man," Snape interjected angrily, but Vernon ignored him. 

"Regardless of who--or what--she is marrying, Marge is still my sister and this family will stand behind her."

"Speak for yourself, Vernon," Aunt Petunia retorted, crossing her arms.

Harry stared at them. He had never, EVER seen his aunt and uncle argue before--they were both far too prim and self-righteous. Now, however, it seemed their rotten perniciousness had grown along separate paths--Aunt Petunia staunchly refused to condone anything to do with magic, while Uncle Vernon remained loyal to his sister and her--wishes. It was the scariest thing he'd ever seen, and not for anything would Harry leave now.

Vernon looked ready to spit nails, but the hall was spared his temper tantrum by Dudley, who waddled out, caught sight of the tableau, and stole the opportunity.

"Why didn't anyone tell _me_ there was a party?" he demanded, shoving his father in the chest. His quivering bulk was clad in fuzzy blue, soft-footed, drop-seat pajamas, and at the moment his face was going puce with the onset of a classic hissy-fit.

Petunia seemed to see this, for she said hastily, "It's not a party, Dinky Duddidums. Go back to bed."

Dudley glowered at her, but Marge, who had remained silent throughout this whole ordeal, spoke up.

"Can it, Petunia," she growled, mercifully abandoning her sickly airy-fairy voice. "The boy's old enough to make his own decisions.

"Oh, make me, you crazy old cow," Petunia snarled back, eliciting snickers from the more-than-entertained onlookers. "You're marrying a wizard, and a damned idiot of a wizard at that--your credibility died a long time ago." She smiled sickly, that smug, self-righteous smirk Harry had long ago learned to dread. "I wonder what old Lockwart would think, if he found out you'd been chasing his best man?" 

She glanced at the chandelier, which Peeves was still clinging to as though it were a life preserver. "Unless, of course, you were going for the school poltergeist, which would be ten time worse."

Marge seemed at a loss for words. "But--but--Gilderoy--" she said, the look on her face clearly showing she was in the process of hatching a good one.

Petunia glanced around, her sharp eyes picking over the crowds. "He seems to be the only person in this infernal castle who's not here right now. What's the matter, did he fall asleep with his curlers over his ears?"

And without waiting for a response, she turned on her slipper, caught Dudley (who had been goggling up at Hermione on the balcony) by the scruff of the neck, and stormed off to wherever it was they had come from.

There was an uncomfortable silence, as everyone who could stared after the two Dursleys, and at Uncle Vernon standing dumb and silent in his pajamas.

"Erm, well," McGonagall coughed after a minute. "Let's get to bed, everyone, we've got a big day coming up...."

She released Snape, who was still gazing after Petunia, a most peculiar expression on his sallow face. The crowds stirred reluctantly, not wanting the spectacle to end, but the numerous yawns that punctuated the whispered hubbub spoke of just how tired everyone was.

"Well, that was...interesting," said Ron, rubbing his eyes. "Never thought I'd say this, but I wish Christmas was over."

"You're not the only one," muttered Harry, as Hermione fought her way over to them, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark-circled. The three looked at one another, yawned, and as one started back toward Gryffindor Tower.

"Aw, come on, you three, where's your sense of _fun_?"

Fred and George had, as they were so adept at doing, popped up behind them without anyone's noticing. "I sincerely hope you appreciated our little performance?" said George, his eyes bright and not sleepy in the least.

"You cracked the potion, didn't you?" Hermione said wearily, stating more than asking.

"Well, _somebody_ had to," snorted Fred, adjusting the collar on his paisley pajamas. "Really, the quality of the pranksters at this school has simply plummeted since George and I graduated. You get something that juicy dumped in your laps, and not a one of you has the sense to go ferret it out?"

"You've wounded us deeply," said George, clapping a hand over his heart.

"Oh, shut it, you two," said Ron. "If being a prankster means you've got to go running about setting up disasters at two in the morning, count me out."

"Fine," sniffed Fred. "See if we get you anything for Christmas."

"Knowing the kind of gifts you give, I'd be lucky," Ron muttered.

"I heard that!"

"It's lights out on Broadway," Hermione muttered, as they shuffled past Lupin, Doors, and Sirius. "G'night, Professors, and let's hope it's for keeps this time."

"Good night, you three," said Sirius. Doors and Lupin didn't say anything, but still looked worried, and Harry felt a tiny curl of ice in his stomach at the reminder of Snape's earlier words. Well, he wouldn't dare try anything tonight, and Harry would just have to be careful what he drank out of until the wedding was over.

"Nutjob," he muttered, scrambling back through the portrait-hole. Minutes later he had collapsed onto his bed in the boys' dormitory, and was just kicking his shoes off when he suddenly remembered the dream all the commotion had woke him from.

"I am _not_ going to go like Trelawney," he said firmly, shaking his head. He fell back on the bed, and slept undisturbed for the rest of the night.

Phew! Done with that part, and Chunk Number Three should be due soon enough. That will, BTW, include the wedding, which I know is probably the only reason half of you are bothering to wade through this tome. And since I didn't put a disclaimer in the first part, I'll put one now: I'm not JK (much though I wish I were), and therefore none of her characters or locations belong to me. Some of the later brouhaha in this monster does, but I'm not overly anxious to claim it. Please don't sue me, I'm out of work and my pitiful penny fund wouldn't buy a sock.

P.S. A very heartfelt thank you to all of you for not pressuring me--it's made my life a lot easier. ^_^

P.P.S. Go check out my website, people! It may be found at www.angelfire.com/geek/mynaevaerland (just copy and paste, I'm too lazy to link), and if you have any suggestions/contributions/flames, by all means, let me know. ^_^

SpamWarrior


	3. Part Three (subtitled: @#%&*$~!!!!! ::...

::Author takes a deep breath:: Okay, get ready for the World's Longest Author's Note. (Well, probably not the _longest_, but a big one nonetheless.) First off, I want to say that none of these wonderful characters belongs to me--most are the property of JK Rowling, and the one who isn't owns me. I'm sticking something in here that I forgot to put on the last part: If you want to know more about what Doors was telling Harry about Snape's past, I refer you to one of my other scary creations, 'Enter Sandman'. If you don't care about that and just want to find out what happens at the wedding, read on, and please don't murder me for what follows--I'm young, poor, and bored, and that tends to lead to, er, frightening things.

(I apologize in advance for the complete and utter stupidity of this post.) ^_^

Eves

It was the smell of sausage that woke him next morning, at about half-past nine and as rested as if he'd slept the whole night through. Sun was pouring through the frosted window, the small heater in the center of the room was glowing red-hot, and by the look of the pile on the sill it had snowed again some time during the night.

"Good morning, world," he muttered, stretching. He kicked at his blankets, feeling warm and lazily contented, when suddenly something thumped hard on the ground by his bed.

"What the--" 

He scrambled off the four-poster and bent down, and found himself confronted with a small, very oddly-shaped package wrapped in--

"Tie-dye," he said, half a groan and half a grin. Whatever it was, the little parcel was oddly heavy, and so wound with brilliant yarn that he hadn't the faintest idea how to go about unwrapping it.

The bathroom door opened, admitting a great puff of steam and an odor of shampoo. Ron, still in his pajamas, came out toweling his hair.

"I was wondering when you were going to get up," he said, tossing the towel at Harry and opening his trunk. "Seamus and Dean are already downstairs, and the twins hauled Neville off somewhere an hour ago. Breakfast's still not ready, but--"

He stopped, catching sight of the--oddity--in Harry's hands. "What is _that_?" he asked, as Harry turned it over in search of a weak point in its armor-like wrapping.

"No idea," Harry said, pushing his glasses up and reaching for his wand. "Bit early for Christmas, I'd think."

Ron handed him the wand, which had been sitting just beyond his reach on the nightstand. "Well, I think we know who sent it," he snorted, as Harry snapped one of the strings with the tip of his wand. He watched curiously as Harry pried the yards of string off the egg-shaped package, revealing a soft, flannel-swathed bundle.

"If she gave me one of those singing egg things, I'll--"

He broke off, and both he and Ron stared at his present, Harry in bewilderment and Ron in open-mouthed astonishment.

In his hands was an orb, smaller by far that a crystal ball, and blacker than anything he'd ever seen. There seemed to be something wrong, something just slightly out of place about it, though, and as he looked at it he realized that none of the light in the room was reflected in its smooth sable surface.

"What _is_ it?" he asked, turning it over in search of some clue.

As if his question had awakened it, the ball suddenly began to hum faintly, and a moment later the blackness had melted into a myriad of glowing colors, swirling like smoke within the confines of the orb. It grew warm beneath his fingers, and suddenly up his arm there shot one of the most comforting, lovely sensations he had ever felt.

Before Harry could even think, he had dropped the ball onto the bed, leaping back from it as though it had bit him.

"I don't know," breathed Ron, still gazing round-eyed at the little sphere and seemingly oblivious of Harry's reaction to it. "I've never seen one before, so I can't be sure, but Harry--I think that might be a Neverstone."

"A what?" Harry said blankly, feeling like an idiot. 

"A Neverstone--I can't _believe_ you've never heard of them, they're some of the most prized relics in all of wizardry, they're--"

"Hang on a minute," said Harry. "There's a note in here." He shook out the folds of bright material and picked up a folded square of parchment.

Ron leaned in to peer at it, and they recognized at once Doors's strong, slightly wandering script.

Harry, 

Merry early Christmas. 

This is a small keepsake your father and I had years of fun with. I thought it was time it were passed on to you. I hope you didn't find this when all your dorm mates were around, but if so, oh well.

I can't tell you in a note just what this little oddity is, but come find me once you've read this and I'll explain everything. I'm warning you now, it's a bit complicated, and I also warn you to KEEP IT A SECRET. I mean it, Harry, don't go running around shouting that you've got an early present, or the whole point of this will be in vain. Mum's the word, and it'd better say that way.

I'll be out by the Tree all morning, unless you're reading this during breakfast. Come pay me a visit.

Lorna

"Well, that's weird and no mistake," said Harry, handing the letter to Ron. 

"Yeah," Ron said absently, looking from the note to the orb. "But it fits; everything else you've inherited from your parents has been weird--weird and cool. Go hurry up and talk to Doors, will you, I want to know if I was right or not." His eyes glazed over. "A _Neverstone_, I never would've--"

Harry shook his head and changed his robes, making a mental note to get an Ironing Charm put on his wedding outfit before tomorrow. Digging under his bed produced his winter boots, and catching his cloak off the peg by the nightstand he picked up the ball (which had gone dark once more), stuffed it into his pocket, and hurried down the staircase.

"Nice hair, Potter," Malfoy called, as Harry hurried past the Great Hall. He realized it must look like a pack of rodents had tried to nest in it, but right now he didn't really care--he had to know what this odd, sleeping orb in his pocket was, and why on earth Doors had given it to him now.

So lost was he in his thoughts that before he knew it, he had slammed head-on into somebody much taller than him, and nearly been bowled over in the door to the entrance hall.

"Oof! Sorry," he muttered, trying to scramble to his feet.

"Really, Potter, watch where you're going."

Harry's stomach dropped. He looked up and met eyes with Snape, who was glaring down at him as though he'd just crawled out of a sewer. He obviously hadn't suffered too many ill effects from his little night out, though Harry could fairly feel anger coming off of him in waves. He looked strange, somehow different than normal, but that was likely just Harry's overwhelming paranoia. 

"In a bit of a hurry, are we?" he sneered, grinning unpleasantly down at Harry. "Off to sneak into Hogsmeade for some more toys?"

Harry felt himself pale. He hadn't been to Hogsmeade all year, but he was far from the only person who used the secret passage that led to the basement of Honeyduke's. He knew he ought to say something, but his tongue seemed to have glued itself to the roof of his mouth, and it only made Snape's smirk even fouler.

"Well, I'd say--"

Harry winced, waiting for the axe to fall, but Snape stopped short.

"What is _that_?" he breathed, in a tone exactly like Ron's. Harry whirled around, and saw with rising panic that the ball, whatever it was, had fallen out of his pocket and rolled about two feet behind him.

"Uh, nothing," he said hastily, snatching the orb and stuffing it back into his robes. "Just something Doors gave me."

Snape was staring at him with an expression Harry had never before seen on his sallow face. For a moment he couldn't guess what it was, until thoughts of Ron's reaction made him realize it was wonder.

"Lorna gave you....She had....and she never said..." Snape seemed stunned, and while at any other time Harry would have loved to hang around and relish the spectacle, he had to go find his aunt.

"Er, yeah," he said, thinking wildly. "And there's Marge, I've gotta go."

Snape jumped about a foot in the air and spun around, and Harry darted past him into the entrance hall.

"Potter, get back here!" Snape bellowed, once assured that no Dursleys were going to swoop down on him.

"Yeah, right," Harry snorted, fairly flying out the front doors and down the icy steps. He slipped on the bottom one and nearly took another tumble, but after a few minutes' floundering in the snow, he managed to gain enough ground to catch sight of the base of it--the Tree.

The Tree had been planted at the end of last term, grown from a seed Doors had pressed into his hand before going to her death with Voldemort. Nobody knew just what it was, (and as Doors herself wasn't telling, nobody likely ever would), but it had grown as her way of blessing and cursing the school as she saw fit. Now that she, well, wasn't dead anymore, Harry had no idea what it did, save grow at an astounding rate and provide formidable guardianship of the front doors.

His aunt, swathed once more in her piecemeal cloak of rabbit fur, was sitting in the snow with her back against it and a large square of parchment floating in front of her. As he drew nearer Harry saw that all sorts of lines and dots were wiggling across it, and he realized it must be her decoration plan for the Great Hall. If she saw him she made no sign, and so he crunched rather nervously toward her.

"Er--um--" Harry cleared his throat, his breath rising chill and frosty in the icy air. It was about two degrees out here, and what anyone in their right mind would be doing under a tree in such weather was beyond him.

Doors looked up, her startlingly bright eyes twinkling. "Good morning, Harry," she said, flicking the lines to a halt with a wave of her wand. "I take it you found your present?"

"Yeah," Harry said, blowing on his fingers. "And whatever it is, Ron about died when he saw it."

Doors grinned, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind one pointed ear. "I don't blame him," she said, rolling the parchment and sticking it in her pocket. "Walk with me, Harry, and I'll tell you a story."

Harry felt his heart sink. Much as he wanted to know just what the strange object weighing down his pocket was, he didn't really want to walk around in arctic temperatures until his ears fell off to find out. Doors seemed to notice this, for she stood up and smacked her forehead.

"I'm sorry, Harry, honey," she said, taking out her wand again. She pointed it between his eyes, muttered something, and a moment later a lovely wave of warmth washed over him, as though he'd just stepped in front of a roaring fireplace. "You should've said something."

Harry shook his head, not wanting to go into that one. "Anyhow--"

"Anyhow, now that you're not going to drop dead of hypothermia, come with me." 

And before he could say anything else, Harry found himself being led through the sparkling drifts, around the trunk of the great tree. He'd never paid much attention to it before, but now that Doors brought him up close he realized that there were knot-holes placed at strategic intervals to climb up into its branches. His aunt hopped up them with a not-so-surprising agility, leaving Harry to scramble up as best he could behind her.

He poked his head through the snow-frosted boughs, and found himself faced with what had to be the most spectacular treehouse on the face of the earth. It had to be enchanted; there was no way you could have missed it from outside if it wasn't.

It was all one room, roughly the size of the Gryffindor common room and far more interesting. There was no glass in the windows, but scattered about were all sorts of oddities that had probably come out of Doors's apartments in the castle--whirling silver gizmos, several brilliant tapestries, an odd assortment of furniture, and so many prisms that the walls fairly danced with little flashing rainbows.

"You like it?"

Harry started, dragging his eyes away from the odd splendor around him and looking at his grinning aunt. "Remus and Sirius and I have been working on it," she said, pulling her wand out of her pocket and pointing it at the empty fireplace.

"_Drisendio_," she muttered, and at once a roaring, brilliant silver fire sprang up, warming the room instantly. "I don't think anyone else knows about it, so we're sure to not be disturbed." She swept a bow to one of the fat, squashy green armchairs, before settling on the one opposite and setting down her wand.

Harry sat, slipping a hand in his pocket to feel the orb. It was surprisingly warm to his touch, and once again seemed to be humming faintly.

"It's all right, it's not going to hurt you," Doors said. "Here, let me see if it's recognized you yet."

Reluctantly, Harry drew the small sphere from his pocket and handed it to Doors. The misty lights were swirling deep within it, almost as though it were only half-awake, but the moment his aunt touched it they flared and spread to the surface, tumbling in a sort of organized chaos within their glass prison.

"Oh, good," Doors said, cradling it in the palm of her spidery hand. "It knows who you are, Harry, and what's more it seems to have accepted you."

"It's _what_?" said Harry, wishing he could grow fed up enough to snap at her. "What _is_ it, and why should I care if it's accepted me or not?"

Doors grinned at him, tossing the orb at him so that it nailed him squarely in the chest. He noticed at once that the pattern of its whirling smoke shifted, becoming much smoother and more even than it had been for Lorna.

"That, my dear nephew, is a Neverstone," Doors said with satisfaction. "They're some of the rarest and most highly sought-after objects known to wizardry, and with good reason. Over these things wars have been fought, and countless bloody goblin rebellions been staged."

Harry stared at her blankly. "What?" he said, looking down at the orb that was still humming in his palm. Sure, it was pretty enough, but what did it _do_? Surely it couldn't be worth holding a war over. "You're telling me people killed each other over this thing?"

Doors sighed. "Don't you pay attention in History of Magic?"

Harry looked at her.

"Good point," she said, chortling. "I remember old Binns' lessons. Well, if you HAD cared to listen rather than sleep, you would have learned that Neverstones are relics left by the very first witches and wizards to ever walk the earth. Magic isn't native to this world, you know, though by now it's so interwoven into everything that it might as well be." 

She twirled her wand idly, before pointing it at a small plant on the table and sending a vine trailing over the floor. "The very first of our kind, then called Magi, came to this world from somewhere very different, a world so unlike this one that it took about five generations for them to get over the shock. And that world--" here Doors pointed her wand at the wall and unrolled a tapestry with a snap "--was called Naevaerland."

"Neverland?" Harry said, growing suspicious--this had to be a joke. Wasn't Neverland where Peter Pan had come from?

"Don't you give me that look, you heard what I said," Doors laughed, seeing his thoughts on his face. "Not James Barrie's Neverland. I'm talking about the real thing here, the Land of Never and Always. Naevaerland is the Gate of Heaven, which all souls must pass through before they can go up--or down. It's a bona fide little world, with all sorts of wee odd inhabitants I'd just love to loose on this school. And it's the world where all magic, good or ill, originated."

She pointed at the tapestry, a truly beautiful thing Harry recognized from two years previous, when it had hung on the wall outside her tower room. It showed a great mountain, high and rocky, and tiered with three rings of disproportionately large trees. The longer he looked at it, the more he seemed to see, until he could have sworn that the woven trees were fluttering, and the clouds around them swirling and floating on a wind he half fancied he could hear.

"What the--" he breathed, but Doors gave him a shove that nearly toppled him off his chair.

"Don't study it too long," she warned, something impish in her eyes that Harry knew meant nothing but trouble. "You stare at that thing long enough, it'll suck you right through and into Naevaerland--but only if you're of the right sort. Obviously, you are."

"But it--I heard--" Harry started wildly.

"You heard a ghost of the winds of Naevaerland," his aunt said, clearly pleased. "And it's very fortunate you did, for it means you will be able to read the Stone as well as it can read you."

Harry looked down at the orb, which was churning in a brilliant tumult in his hand. It certainly seemed to be saying something, but he could as soon have deciphered Hermione's Arithmancy homework than guess what it was. A thousand questions chased themselves around in his brain, but the only one he could give voice to was, "How did _you_ get ahold of something like this?"

Doors raised her eyebrows. "Really, Harry, you've known me this long and you have to ask?" she said, somehow infusing an even greater glee into her odd voice. "No, honey, I actually can't tell you how I got hold of it--not yet, at any rate. But I _will_ tell you what it is, and what it does, and--" here the slightest flicker of sorrow passed over her face "--and what your father and I used to use it for."

She sat silent a moment, as though collecting her thoughts. "I told you that Neverstones are some of the most sought-after objects in all of wizardry, and there's a very good reason for that. Not only can they tell you anything--and I mean _anything_--going on around the world at any given moment, they can also look into the past, future, and What Might Have Been."

She put an emphasis on these last words. "I don't recommend you try the latter, as it leads to nothing but heartache. However, once you and the Stone have reached an understanding, it may reveal powers to you that it has never before used--the Stones react differently to each of their keepers, and bestow on them gifts according to their individual needs and desires. What it gives you also depends on how much the Stone likes you, though I don't think that will be a problem, in your case."

The orb in Harry's hand grew suddenly warmer, with that same lovely, all-consuming, comforting sort of heat it had washed over him in the dormitory. This time he didn't drop it or cry out, and the longer he held it the stranger and more wonderful the sensation grew.

"W-What's it doing?" he asked tremulously, unafraid but curious.

"Talking," Doors whispered, the light in her eyes flaring brighter for a moment. "Don't worry, you'll understand what it's saying sooner or later."

Harry seriously doubted this, but the feeling trailing through his fingers to his whole body was so pleasant that he hardly cared. There were, however, two things he was so curious about that not even the mind-fuzzing joy of the orb could drive them out of his head.

"What do you mean, it gives you abilities? Is it like those spells McGonagall tried teaching us, the ones that give you greater power?"

Doors looked thoughtful. "Well.....sort of. More like it takes whatever gifts you've already got, and amplifies them to the point where they'd be equal with a Naevaerland Magi. It's what it did to James, which is mostly why he and all those idiots were able to get away with the Animagus transformation--no underage wizard could get even close to powerful enough for that without the help of a Stone--or a demon, but I doubt even Voldemort would be that stupid."

Harry mused over this one for a moment, but his second, far more pressing question was nagging so that he had to let it out. "And can you see--other worlds--in this thing?"

Doors looked at him keenly, her eyes piercing his own with a gaze that seemed to read his very soul. She'd done this before, and every time it made Harry squirm as though she'd hopped right into his mind to have a look around.

"You want to see your parents, don't you?" she asked, her voice unusually serious.

Harry nodded, not trusting himself to speak under the scrutiny of her stare.

The small professor sighed. "More than that, you're wondering why Remus and Sirius didn't bring them back as well, aren't you? If magical resurrection is possible, why did they stop with me? Why didn't they bring back everyone ever murdered by Lord Voldemort?"

Harry stared at her, horrified. What she said was true, every last word of it, and yet these were things he would never fully admit even to himself.

Doors laid a spidery hand on each of his shoulders. "I'm sorry, Harry, and I don't mean to pry, but--well, your face does read rather like a signboard." She waited for him to chuckle, but he continued to gaze at her as though transfixed.

She sighed again. "There is a reason that only I could come back, and I promise you will know it when the time is right. Needless to say, that's not right now. And while a Neverstone may show you things beyond this world, nothing can breach the walls of Heaven--nothing going up, at any rate. Trust me, Harry, though you might not see them, I know for a fact that James and Lily rarely do anything other than watch you and Sirius act like idiots."

This time Harry had to laugh--not at Doors's words, but at that indefinable something in her voice that forced chortles out of the most unwilling listener.

"Oh, that's comforting," he snorted. "Knowing my mum's impression of me is based on Sirius and I throwing small bombs down a well and enchanting rabid socks."

He and Doors burst into fits of helpless laughter, and the orb in his hand flared momentarily warmer. Harry realized (with something of a start) that it was laughing as well, and he filed this odd bit of information away, to deal with later.

"Come on, Harry," said Doors, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Let's go have some breakfast. And whatever you do, don't go pulling that thing out in front of everybody--the last thing in the world we need is more chaos."

Harry put the orb in his pocket and got to his feet, stretching and running a hand through his hair, making it stand even more on end. He had just started for the trapdoor down when he heard what was unmistakably the crunch of footsteps in the snow below them.

"What the--" 

He and Doors looked at each other, before both darting to the far window. A figure swathed in black was hotfooting it back up the stairs and into the castle.

"Son of a crackwhore," muttered Doors, leaning her hands on the sill and hanging her head. "Well, this ought to make life a little more interesting."

Even from this distance Harry recognized Snape, slipping and nearly falling as he scrambled back through the great front doors. And suddenly, he knew just what it was that had seemed different about the Potions master when he saw him in the entrance hall.

Snape had washed his hair.

****

"You're kidding," said Ron.

"For the last time, _no_," Harry snapped, somewhat irritably.

It was about half an hour after breakfast, and he, Ron, and Hermione had scrambled to have a powwow in the only place in all the castle where they could get some privacy--Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. It was so cold down here that Hermione had lit blue fires in all the sinks, and offended Myrtle into diving down and hiding in the S-bend.

"But--but Harry--" Hermione stuttered, so excited she could scarcely speak, something little short of miraculous. "You--you're saying--"

"Snape washed his _hair_?" Ron choked, gaping.

"Oh, for the last time, Ron, YES," Hermione said, her tongue apparently loosening. "Get over it, we've got bigger things to talk about."

Harry rolled his eyes. He'd told them both about the Neverstone and his meeting with Doors, and while Hermione seemed to grasp the point (a little too well, actually), Ron was too hung up on the fact that Snape had suddenly taken an interest in hygiene to understand the full implications of the small ball weighing down Harry's right pocket.

As if that weren't aggravating enough, their private enclave was turning out to be anything but. They hadn't been in there five minutes before Fred and George burst in, each armed with enough explosives and gags to fell a small army, and had been more than willing to share the space with them until Ron said Hermione had to take care of 'female issues' and wanted to be left alone. Fred and George had made tracks right quick, and Hermione had hit Ron so hard that he already had a nasty bruise forming under his right eye.

"Can we please get back to the subject here?" Harry demanded, wishing mightily the orb would give him the power to seal both his friends' mouths shut. Ron and Hermione, who had been sniping mercilessly at one another, looked at him.

"Er, sorry," Ron said sheepishly.

"Yeah, Harry, go on," said Hermione.

"Thank you," Harry said wearily. "Now--"

His words were cut off by the door, which banged open quite suddenly and admitted a jumble of legs and arms that, once disentangled, proved to be Denis Creevey, Natalie McDonald, and about a dozen impious-looking first years with suspicious bulges in their robes.

"Oh, hiya, Harry," Denis said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the fact that Harry looked like he was about to explode. "Mind if we join you?"

"YES I MIND!" Harry bellowed, his patience snapping at last. "CAN'T A PERSON GET A BLOODY MOMENT'S PRIVACY IN THIS PLACE?"

Denis and Natalie stopped short, staring at him with looks that said quite clearly 'You're off your onion.'

"Sorry," they mumbled, shooing their herd out the door. Harry glared after them so fiercely that Ron burst out laughing.

"It's not funny," Harry said, though his mouth was twitching as well. "Seriously, though--Doors told me not to tell anybody about it, and I think she meant you two as well. I know she didn't want Snape knowing about it, but she and the Marauders'll fix his wagon. And meanwhile--" his hand settled on his pocket with a satisfied air "--I have less than twenty-four hours to communicate with this thing and turn this wedding into something Hogwarts will never forget."

Ron looked ecstatic, but Hermione eyed him dubiously. "Are you sure that's what Doors meant by giving that to you?" she asked, crossing her arms. "I mean, it's not entirely out of the realm of possibility that she was actually being _serious_, you know," she added.

"Oh, sure it was."

"Yeah, and we think your plan is absolutely smashing, old bean."

Harry whirled around to find Fred and George in the doorway once more, wearing identical expression of evil glee and now unencumbered by their masses of equipment.

"Great," groaned Ron. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Enough," said Fred. "And we need to talk to you two--alone," he added, glancing at Hermione.

"About what?" she asked suspiciously, scowling like Professor McGonagall.

The twins glanced at one another. "Er--female issues," said George.

Ron let out a choking cough, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "_Honestly_," she said, storming from the bathroom.

"She's going to get you for that, you know," Harry remarked.

"Yeah, well, we weren't kidding," said Fred. "We overheard Malfoy this morning, muttering to himself about 'breaking the news' tomorrow. Now, I'm not sure, but I think he's planning to pop the question to Hermione tomorrow at the wedding."

"You--you mean THE question?" Ron croaked, paling.

Fred nodded grimly. "And I don't want to know what Lucius would do if he suddenly caught dear old Draco proposing to a Muggle-born in the middle of everyone's worst nightmare."

Harry winced.

"But--but we're only sixteen! What would make Malfoy think Hermione would--would EVER--oh, WHY did you have to go and put that spell on him in the first place?" Ron finished, his face reddening with fury and frustration.

The twins looked highly uncomfortable. "Well, it wasn't supposed to last THIS long," said George. "In fact, the spell we tried is supposed to hang around for a month at most. Either we messed it up big time, or Malfoy really likes her."

"I'm not sure which prospect is worse," Ron muttered, looking a bit queasy.

"Oh, Hermione's litany of woe doesn't end there," Fred said cheerfully. "After we'd passed Malfoy--"

"Who really was mooning like an idiot, I might add," put in George.

"--we almost got bowled over by your cousin, who seemed to be thinking (if you could call it that) along the same lines as Malfoy. Now, quite apart from that combination likely sending poor Hermione round the bend if she ever found out, there's the issue of what Malfoy and Dudley might try to do to each other if _they_ discover they're after the same girl."

"Corking," muttered Harry. He slipped his hand into his pocket, and felt the orb hum sympathetically under his fingers.

"On a lighter note," said George, in a tone that meant no good for anyone. "Did you get a load of Snape at breakfast? His Greasiness has finally discovered the use of a shower."

"Yeah, so Harry said," sniggered Ron. "Any idea why?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Fred, his face cracking into an evil grin. "Gentlemen, we present to you Exhibit A, as captured by one C. Creevey in the hallway the other day."

He presented with a flourish a small wizarding photograph, which proved to be Aunt Petunia in her hideous pink bridesmaid's dress. She seemed to be scowling at McGonagall, who was eying her with utmost disdain.

"I believe one of you will know her quite well: Petunia Dursley, age forty, wife to Vernon and mother to Dudley. By all accounts happily married--or, at least, until this whole mess started; observers of late have noticed a pronounced marital strain between she and her husband. That said, I turn you over to my cohort, Monsieur George."

George's grin was even eviler than Fred's, as impossible as it seemed. "I now present you with Exhibit B, our very own Potions master. Severus Snape, age thirty-six, by all accounts the meanest, nastiest, and most generally unpleasant person on the face of the planet. Professor Snape is well known for his hygiene--or lack of it--and yet he was observed by, well, everyone to have washed his hair. What does this portend? As the jury, that judgment is up to you."

"Oh, _God_," groaned Harry, an urge to laugh and an urge to vomit warring within him. "That is NOT a pleasant mental image."

Fred gazed at him reprovingly. "Really, young Potter," he said, sounding so uncannily like Percy that Ron backed away in fear. "Just because you're sixteen doesn't mean you're called upon to be perverted."

"And just because you've graduated doesn't mean Snape can't still murder you," Ron retorted, having recovered somewhat.

George looked affronted. "Why, whatever do you mean?" he asked, his eyes widening with the patented Weasley attempt at innocence.

"Oh, sod off, you two, I've lived with you for sixteen years, remember?" snorted Ron, leaning against a sink and nearly setting his robes afire. "You try and mess with Snape and his--issues--and you'll wind up joining Moaning Myrtle in here."

"Ooo, really?"

The four of them jumped, and looked up to find themselves faced with the now not-so-glum face of Myrtle herself, who was perched atop the far stall door. "I wouldn't mind at all," she said, blushing silver. "And there's TWO of you--I wouldn't need that picture of Jimmy Alan any more....."

She trailed off, apparently realizing she'd said too much, but by the time she tried to correct her mistake, the quartet of live bathroom visitors had fled to the safety of the hallway.

They ran smack into Hermione, who had apparently been waiting just outside the door. "Are you quite finished?" she asked, glaring at the twins.

"Yeah," said Ron, looking shaken. "And we just learned more about Moaning Myrtle than any of us ever wanted to."

To Harry's intense surprise, at these words Hermione burst out laughing. "Oh, you poor dears," she said, in a fairly passable Mrs. Weasley impersonation. "You found out about Jimmy, didn't you?"

Harry shook his head, and beat tracks for the Gryffindor common room before anything else could pop out and scare him.

****

Some minutes later, he found himself lying on his stomach on the floor of the boys' dormitory, hands laced under his chin and the orb directly in front of him. Its smoky lights were dancing and tumbling within it, and while the occasional isolated flash of understanding hit him, Harry had no more idea of what it was trying to say than he did of what went on in Malfoy's mind. (Not that he really wanted to know on that count.)

Not that he hadn't tried. As soon as he'd made it back to Gryffindor Tower--after doubling back several times to shake off various Lockharts--Harry had locked himself in the dormitory and begun trying every crackpot trick he ever learned in Divination to communicate with the Neverstone. None of them had worked, and so now, exhausted and swiftly developing one mother of a headache, he simply stared at it with somewhat crossed eyes.

A sudden pounding on the door broke through his thoughts. "Hey, Harry, lemme in," called Seamus, rattling the knob.

Harry snatched up the orb and sprang to his feet, leaping onto his bed and hastily reversing his Locking Charm.

Seamus stumbled into the room and cast a wary glance around. "Nothing's going to explode, is it?" he asked, his grey eyes darting over the innocuous-looking beds.

Harry cracked a grin. "I hope not," he said, his hand on the orb under his blankets. "But I shouldn't think so."

Seamus heaved an audible sigh of relief. "Thank God," he muttered, leaning against the doorjamb. "It's about the only place in the castle that hasn't been picked over by about four different gangs of Fred and George imitators."

"Lovely," said Harry, still grinning. "But I think the Weasleys themselves have had more than a little hand in the chaos-brewing. Ran into them about an hour ago, armed with enough explosives to make their performance last year look like the opening act."

Seamus winced. "Argh, I'm beginning to think this whole thing's more trouble than it's worth," he muttered. "Between my mum and worrying about getting impaled by some flying fondue fork, I'd rather they just eloped."

Harry felt a slight stab in his chest. As much as all his friends were complaining about having their parents at Hogwarts, he couldn't help but feel jealous of them--he'd never had any parents to complain of, and here everyone else was ungrateful of theirs.

Seamus didn't seem to notice. "Well, I'd better go rescue Neville before Denis and Natalie tie him to a ceiling fan or something." He flipped open his trunk, pulled out a pair of Muggle bolt cutters, and made for the common room once more.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind him. He drew the orb from his blankets and looked at it thoughtfully, the colors dipping and whirling within it.

"What might have been," he murmured softly, gazing at it. Doors had said knowing what might have been caused nothing but heartache, and he could see her point--if the Mirror of Erised was bad, knowing how completely different everything could have been would be incomparably worse.

And yet....amid this sea of parents Harry felt woefully alone, and to see his family just once, and hear their voices in something other than a scream--surely that much couldn't hurt.

Cautiously he cupped the orb in his palms, feeling its warmth flare as he focused his attention on it.

"Can you show me?" he asked, in a whisper so faint even he could scarcely hear it.

The lights within the ball brightened, tumbling in a chaotic mayhem that nevertheless resembled some form of a pattern. There was a roaring in his hears, as color and light spun faster and faster--

--and suddenly he threw the orb away, sending it bouncing to the foot of his bed and breathing as though he'd just run a mile.

"No," he said, wiping his forehead. "I'm not going to do it. They're dead and they're going to stay that way, and looking at what could have been isn't going to bring them back."

He flopped weakly back onto his bed, his heart racing and mind miserable. He knew he was right to avoid the orb's temptation, but it didn't make him feel any better--the ache in his heart was like the dull thump of ice in the middle of nowhere, and for some odd, unaccountable reason he felt tears welling in his eyes.

"Harry?"

The dormitory door creaked open, and Doors stuck her head in. "Oh, Harry," she said, stepping in and waving the door shut behind her. "Honey, I didn't give you that thing to start you on a whole train of misery."

Harry hurriedly wiped his eyes, ashamed at his weakness. "I'm fine," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice steady.

Doors snorted. "Yeah, and I'm Professor Trelawney's evil twin." She sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. "Look, I'll make you a deal, all right? After this whole mess is over I'll see if I can't pull a few strings and get you a visit with your dear old ancestors."

Harry looked at her, his eyes round. "You could do that?" he asked.

"Well, I dunno, I've never tried. Can't be too hard, though, if I ask the right people." She drew Harry into a motherly sort of hug. "You're not alone, honey, no matter how much you might think so. One of the advantages of having so many dead relatives is having them constantly hovering somewhere over your head."

She gave him a little shake and released him, hopping off his bed and nudging his altar server's robes with her foot. "Nice to know my nephew takes care of his dress clothes," she said, glancing impishly at him with one eyebrow arched. "I can tell you one thing, you ever see your mother the first thing she's going to do is tell you off for being such a slob." 

Harry laughed in spite of himself. "I don't need a mother," he said, catching the robes as the tossed them to him. "You're more than bad enough."

Doors regarded him keenly for a moment. "Why, thank you, Harry," she said, before turning and leaving him with a pile of wrinkled material and a considerably better mood.

"Argh," he muttered, glancing at the clock. "We'd better get cracking, if we want to have a hope of competing with Fred and George." And trailing his dress robes, he dashed from the dormitory in search of Ron and Hermione.

****

Several hours later found he, Ron, the twins, Hermione, Ginny, and Natalie and Denis's minions collapsed in chairs in the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had declined any part in the overt gag-setup, though she did offer to do a little spying in the Great Hall (which had been off limits as of the end of breakfast, so that the decoration crew could finish their work.) She said (in a very disapproving sort of voice) that they didn't need to worry about rigging the Hall itself; from the look of it, the three Marauders were doing a more than passable job of it themselves.

So Harry and the Weasleys had gone over every inch around the Hall with a fine-toothed comb, setting up trick paintings, armor, and several disgruntled bits of enchanted carpeting, that tended to throw whoever stepped on them about fifteen feet.

Harry had a renewed respect for the Weasleys and their young followers--he doubted even the Marauders could have come up with better gags, and some of the things the twins had thought up were sheer genius. Planting baby boggarts in every broom closet on the first floor had been only the first stage of a plan that must have been started sometime back in June, and which would, if implemented correctly, give Hogwarts the 'memorable' occasion all the adults seemed to be itching for.

He yawned and massaged his arms--pranking was a strenuous business, and the fact that he would have to be up earlier than anyone else in the common room next morning was not a pleasant one. He'd gotten Fred to teach him an Ironing Charm (where he'd learned it was anyone's guess, but Harry didn't want to question), so his robes were clean and pressed and hanging in the dormitory closet, but even the thought of all the mayhem they had planned wasn't enough to make him look forward to tomorrow's horrors.

"Get to bed, Harry," George said, waving an imperious hand. "Let the Lords of Mischief handle the finishing touches."

"Right," Harry said, heaving himself to his feet. "Just don't blow us all up before tomorrow, all right?"

The twins looked mortified. "And let all our work go to waste?" said Fred, aghast.

"We wouldn't dream of it, old bean," added George. 

Harry shook his head and trooped up to bed, followed by Ron. The rest of their roommates should already be asleep, it being well past eleven o'clock, and it was with his mind blissfully blank that Harry pulled on his pajamas and crawled into bed--what awaited him tomorrow would just have to keep waiting, he wasn't going to worry about it now.

"G'night," he called to Ron through his curtains.

"Night, Harry." There came the rustling of blankets as Ron settled in, before firing one last granule of speculation into the darkness. 

"I wonder what Lockhart's giving Marge for Christmas?"

There came a chorus of disgusted "Eeewww"s. 

The Wedding

Christmas Day dawned bright and cold, with sun glancing off the frosted windows and searing brilliant prisms over everything. It was as still and quiet as a graven image, and so cold that the icicles hanging off the eves were cracking as the sun hit them.

Harry and his dormitory found themselves awakened to this wintery splendor, much earlier than any of them would have liked, by a terrific banging and clatter of pans.

"Gaaa!" There came a loud clunk as Ron fell out of his bed, disturbing the mound of presents that had taken up residence at the foot and bowling over his nightstand. Neville dove under his pillows, while Seamus sat up, bellowed something about torpedoes, launched his water glass, and flopped back to sleep.

"What's the big idea?" Harry demanded, rubbing his eyes and yawning a jaw-cracking yawn. He fumbled for his glasses, and before their intruder (which he quickly identified as a house-elf in a flannel toga) could squeak a response, he had let out a yell of glee that brought the rest of his dorm out of hibernation.

"Presents!" he cried, eying the pile at the end of his bed as the elf dropped all her pans and collapsed with a sigh beside the peat-stove.

"You were expecting grenades?" said Seamus, who had already attacked his and was surrounded by a flurry of torn wrapping paper.

Harry shook his head and began assaulting his own pile, curious to see how he had wound up with so many presents. Several minutes later he was surrounded by a box of false wands, supercharged belch powder, and a squawking rubber chicken (from the Weasley twins), a box of Honeyduke's sweets from Hermione, a new Broomstick Servicing Kit from Ron (who had just opened his own present from Harry and let out a whoop of delight upon discovering a full set of Chudley Cannon robes), and a large, spiky martian flower with magical pollen from Doors.

He had just opened Sirius's gift (a new and improved Marauder's Map) when a smart knocking sounded on the door, and Lupin stuck his head in.

"Harry, you're wanted," he said, a faint smile playing about his pale features. The moon had been almost full last night, which mean he'd likely been up swallowing that vile potion.

Harry grimaced and grabbed his bathrobe, leaving his friends to finish their present slaughter in peace.

"Good grief," he muttered, as he and Lupin descended the sunny spiral staircase. "I didn't think they'd get hold of me this early."

Lupin smirked slightly. "Oh, don't worry, Harry; I think you're going to like what you're about to see."

Harry gulped; these words from the mouth of a Marauder never bore anyone any good. He followed the professor through the cheery morning corridors, realizing swiftly that they were on a course for Doors's rooms. They passed Peeves, his arms full of sticky, decades-old candy canes, but he was too busy stuffing them into the door locks to notice them.

"Do I even want to know?" Harry asked, slowing as they passed a giant picture window looking out on the glittering white world.

Lupin didn't let him linger. "Hurry up, Harry, she'll have my head if you're late." He rapped on the door of Doors's room, and Sirius, wearing an extremely evil grin (Harry gulped again), opened it and bowed them in. Harry took one look around, stopped dead in his tracks, and dropped his jaw.

He had always known his aunt was something of a mad scientist, but this was just ridiculous. Her entire room was crisscrossed with a tangle of tubes, pipes, and weird glass things she had either stolen from Snape or the crazy house. Strange, colored liquids bubbled through and dripped from all of them, filling the room with a vague odor of fruitcake.

"Oh, I was right, I don't want to know," he moaned, though he was wildly curious as to just what all this was for.

Lupin and Sirius laughed, but neither had a chance to respond, for Doors herself appeared a moment later.

Harry stared at her for a long moment, feeling his jaw drop further. "I hope you're not planning to wear that to the wedding," he said, when he regained his voice. "Small aircraft might try to land on your head."

Doors grinned at him and stuck out her tongue, but Harry's worries were not unfounded--her robes were as long and floppy as usual, but this particular set had been covered from neck to hem with long strands of Muggle tinsel, so that it looked like a cross between a bear hide and Mrs. Finnigan's disco ball. It reflected little glitters of light back onto the walls, and made a funny swishing sound every time she moved. She'd pinned her hair up as sloppily as ever, the silver strands standing out every bit as bright as the tinsel, but from the end of every bobby pin hung a tiny red or green Christmas bauble, tinkling and clattering with each turn of her head.

"Oh, now, there's nothing wrong with having a little holiday spirit," she chided him, glancing at his own less than festive attire. "The bathrobe does wonders, by the way."

Harry flushed, realizing his robe still had smears of jam on it from some time in November, and it hadn't smelled the greatest since their encounter with Marge's nocturnal habits several nights before--so much sweating had left it comparable to the aroma of the Quidditch lockers.

"Er, like I said to Lupin, do I really want to know?" he asked by way of changing the subject, sweeping an arm at the mess around him.

Sirius picked at the hem of his robe, which was equally as frightening as Harry's. "If you've any Marauder spirit, you certainly do," he said, walking over to Harry and knocking a beaker of something purple over with his elbow. The beaker smashed on the floor and immediately began eating a hole in the carpet, which Lupin promptly stepped on.

"Oi," muttered Doors in a long-suffering voice, waving the mess away with her wand as Sirius threw a fatherly arm around Harry's shoulders. "Today, my boy, you're going to witness the true meaning of pranking, in all its frightful glory."

"Somehow I was afraid of that," Harry muttered, but Sirius didn't hear him. 

"This, my dear boy--" he gestured to the mess of tubing "--is the future of all joking, the perfect gag, maker of the Ultimate Weapon!" He looked down at Harry with a slightly mad glint in his eyes, grinning insanely. Harry edged away from him.

Doors smiled. "He means this," she said, dropping a bean into his hand.

"A bean?" Harry said, looking around at them. "You've all gone starkers."

Sirius heaved a sigh, but Lupin said quietly, "Not just any bean, Harry. That and all its fellows are the new, improved, super-sensitive generation of Exfydales Beans."

Harry yelped and dropped it as though Lupin had just told him it was a live skrewt egg. Sirius dove for it, but Doors stopped the bean in midair with her wand, leaving Sirius to crash to the floor in a heap.

"As Remus was saying," she continued, ignoring the interruption. "These have about eight times the exploding power of your average bean, meaning you need about half as many. They also need a lot more ill-will to go kablam, so we're safe until the reception."

"And I had to know this because...?" Harry said, still eying the floating bean as though it was about to attack him.

Doors and Lupin looked at one another and Lupin forced a small package into his hand.

"Merry Christmas, Harry," he said solemnly. "You now hold the fate of all this wedding in your hands."

Harry gulped.

"Well, come along, Mr. Pothead," said Doors, clapping a hand on his shoulders. "Let's get you back to Gryffindor Tower before McGonagall comes looking for you and sees this mess."

And without another word, she marched him all the way back to the Tower with his cargo.

He found most of his fellow Gryffindors assembled in the common room, comparing presents and dress robes under the watchful eyes of none other than McGonagall herself, wearing holly-red robes and a wreath around her hat.

"Ah, Potter, I've been looking for you," she said briskly, doing a slight double take at Doors's outfit. "Lovely hair, Lorna, I really think it'll catch on."

"Sure, I was hoping so," said Doors. "Though it's really not complete without the lights." She flicked a small switch at her waist, and a moment later her ornaments were accompanied by dozens of small, flashing Muggle Christmas lights.

"Delightfully tacky, no?" she grinned, as a horde of students left off their presents to gawk.

McGonagall rolled her eyes, and Harry, after a chuckle, sighed. "What did you want, Professor?" he asked.

McGonagall took him by the elbow and led him off to the side, while the rest of the House continued examining Doors's interesting headgear.

"I wanted to get ahold of you before anyone else did," she said in a low murmur. "We were going to have another meeting before breakfast, but there's not going to be time, so I just thought I'd warn you--whatever happens, DO NOT laugh at your aunt's wedding dress. Lockhart's relatives have been getting a little jinx-happy since the events of the other evening, and not all of them are as hopelessly inept as he is. We don't want any duels breaking out if we can help it."

"Great," muttered Harry. "Anything else?"

McGonagall allowed a ghost of a smile. "Try to stay alive through this, could you, Potter? We'll need you come the next Quidditch meet."

She gave him a shake and turned to address the rest of the House, most of whom were still transfixed by Doors's costume. "Breakfast will be eaten in the common room this morning," she said, her voice stern as she dragged the eyes of all the students toward her. "After which you will all return to your dormitories to prepare for the wedding. Seating will begin at ten thirty, though those involved--" everyone's eyes flicked to Harry "--will be obliged to be in the Great Hall a half hour beforehand."

Harry watched as McGonagall surveyed the room, out of which all the mirth had been sucked faster than you could say 'knife'. She sniffed, before snapping in her most McGonagall-like voice, "Oh, for heaven's sake, nobody's died--"

"Yet," interjected Seamus. 

"--and this whole mess will be over and done with by evening. I expect nothing less than the bravery and chivalry worthy of a Gryffindor from you all." She left the tower, turning at the portrait-hole and waving her wand. The chairs flew to the sides of the room, and two long tables laden with food and assorted crackers appeared.

"Enjoy," she said, before disappearing into the corridor.

The students loked at one another, shrugged, and set to.

Harry wedged himself between Ron and Hermione, chewing absently on Christmas pudding while his mind wandered.

"Penny for your thoughts?" said Hermione, holding out a Knut she'd just found embedded in the trifle.

Harry laughed, somewhat gloomily. "Thoughts? Not sure I have many of those at the moment. Fears, yes; worries, yes; downright terrors, yes, but thoughts?"

Ron elbowed him in the ribs. "Cheer up, 'Arry," he said around a mouthful of toast. "You know the twinsh and th' Maraudersh'll make things more intereshting." He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, to Hermion'es disgust.

"Yeah, if they don't kill us all first," said Harry grimly. 

****

In what seemed like no time, he found himself confronting his reflection in his white altar server's robes. He'd polished his glasses, but he felt trying to make his hair behave was one battle he'd rather not fight. A glance at the clock told him he had about ten minutes before he was due in the Great Hall, and so, with a resigned sigh, he trudged out of Gryffindor Tower and down through the hallways. 

At least nobody was around to pity him--the rest of the House was busily preparing for the upcoming nightmare, and the corridors were utterly deserted.

He came upon the doors to the Great Hall and halted, his courage--and his stomach--giving way. He probably would have turned and bolted right there, but at that moment the doors opened and Harry found himself face-to-stomach with--

"Hagrid?" he croaked, looking up.

Hagrid it was, in his hairy brown suite and horrible orange-patterned tie, his hair tied back with a long strip of rawhide and smelling of some kind of over-abundant cologne. 

"'Ey, 'Arry," he said. "Dumbledore sent me t'see where ye were. C'mon in and see the Hall, looks a treat--er, sort of."

Hagrid appeared to be the only person in all of Hogwarts unfazed by the upcoming nuptials, and his lack of concern heartened Harry greatly.

"Hey, Hagrid. What're you doing here so early?" he asked, as Hagrid swept him into the Great Hall.

"Yer aunt told me t' be here early to keep an eye on them idiots." Hagrid scowled darkly at a group of Lockharts, who were setting up a giant black camera on a tripod.

Harry glanced around the Hall, feeling his spirits rise in spite of himself--Hagrid was right, it did look a treat, and Doors had really outdone herself in spite of Lockhart and Marge's deplorable taste. The pink and frills had been kept to a minimum, and his aunt had somehow tricked a small, creeping vine with moon-white flowers into growing around the walls. 

A large and quite pretty arbor dominated the far end of the hall, wound with garlands and flowers and poinsettia blossoms, and before it stood row upon row of white chairs on a red velvet carpet. The walls had been hung with the customary Christmas tapestries, and Harry reflected that the bridal outfits didn't match the decor at all. Doors had probably done that on purpose.

Sunshine poured in through the enchanted ceiling, dancing over flower boxes and garlands that must have taken her ages, but around the corners of the Hall he noticed something inevitable--

"Bathtubs," he muttered, shaking his head at a large, claw-footed monstrosity overgrown with flower-laden vines and creepers. He would have admired more, but the nervous-looking vicar tugged at his collar several times and called out,

"Places, people, places! We need to get these photos done before the guests start showing up!"

Harry found himself being dragged bodily over to a set of risers draped in white velvet. Nearly all the rest of the wedding party seemed to be there already--Petunia, scowling in her pink baby-doll gown; McGonagall and Trelawney eyeing one another beadily from opposite ends of the risers; Lockhart in black tuxedo robes, and Dudley, looking furious and sulky in a set of altar server's robes so large he looked like a small circus tent. The only people who seemed to be missing were Snape and Marge herself, and Harry felt a sight more jolly at the scene that was likely to occur when the latter caught up with the former.

Scarcely had he thought this, however, than Marge came sailing in like a large, chiffon-draped battleship, and Harry knew at once that he wasn't the only one biting his tongue against a wild shriek of laughter.

Marjorie Dursley in her wedding gown had to be the singular most hideous thing Harry had ever seen in his life, even including Dudley in Uncle Vernon's old tux. The dress itself was more than bad enough--eggshell white and dripping with enough tulle, sequins, and satin trim to send the prissiest of little girls shrieking in fear, but it looked ten times worse on Marge.

A magical corset (it had to be magical, any Muggle garment would have burst its seams by now) had drawn up her already ample bosom to giddy heights, while doing its best to slim down her thick waist. Her mousy hair was arranged in an enormous pompadour, crowned with a sequin-studded headpiece surely left over from twenty years past, and a long, embroidered white veil that would have put the Bayeaux Tapestry to shame.

This horrific vision proceeded to trundle its way over to the photographer, beady eyes surveying the crowd. "Where's the best man?" Marge demanded, hitting an off note in her beseeching falsetto. "We can't have the photos without the best man, it just wouldn't do!"

Harry hastily turned a laugh into a cough, and Marge glared at him. "What was that, boy?" she barked, in a voice much more like her own. 

Harry fought the urge to gulp as she advanced on him, taffeta rustling ominously. "Uh, I said I'll go get him," he blurted, taking an unconscious step backwards and nearly toppling off the riser. Without waiting for a response he turned and fairly fled, grateful for any excuse to get out of there.

"Good Lord," he moaned, once safely in the hallway. "I'm not going to make it to the Eucharist."

He set off down the corridor, his task somewhat dogged by the fact that he had absolutely no idea where Snape lived--somewhere in the dungeons, obviously, but in a place like Hogwarts that didn't help much.

"Maybe I can just hide in the broom closet until it's over," he mused as he rounded a corner--and ran headlong into Doors, minus her 'festive' togs but still bearing the distinctive hairdo, carrying a platter laden with corsages.

"Well, hello to you too," she said, whisking the flowers back onto her platter and helping him to his feet. "What're you doing out and about? You should have been in the Great Hall about ten minutes ago." 

Harry shivered. "I was," he said. "Snape didn't show, and I figured going to get him would spare me the terror for a few minutes. Probably going to be more than a few minutes, since I have no idea where Snape is."

Doors laughed. "Poor kid, is it really that bad?"

"Worse," he said fervently, his eyes round and horror registering on his face. He must have looked as bad as he felt, for Doors shook her head sympathetically.

"Well, come on," she said, sending the platter floating on its way with a wave of her wand. "Let's keep you out of there, then." She took his hand and led him down the hallway, through a bewildering series of twists and turns.

"You know where Snape lives?" Harry said, amazed.

Doors snorted. "Are you kidding? He found a little 'present' from the Marauders and I just the other day, if his yells were any indication." She turned him down a secret passage behind a tapestry of Hufflepuff's badger.

"All this is going on and you still find time to torment Snape?" Harry shook his head. "You guys are way too in to what you do." The passage was dark, and the two of them had to slow considerably to avoid smashing into something. The walls glistened damply in the light of the few torches, and Harry sensed that they were going rather perceptibly downward.

"Who said we did it recently? Lupin and I planted that bomb in his shower in fourth year. He just didn't get around to turning the thing on until now."

She stopped him short in front of a tall and forbidding wooden door. "Never actually tried getting in through the front way," she reflected, jumping for and missing the heavy brass knocker. "Sirius did once, and it wasn't pretty."

Harry thought it better not to ask.

"Well, fine then," said Doors, after a third failed attempt at the knocker. She rapped hard on it with her knuckles, sending a dim echo through the clammy passage.

"What is it?" demanded Snape, his voice muffled through the door.

"You're late," Doors called.

"So what?" Snape shot back.

Doors rolled her eyes. "Here we go," she muttered. "Lockhart's waiting for you."

"So?"

"Marge is waiting for you."

"So?"

"The rest of us are waiting for you."

"So?"

Doors shot Harry a glance that was at once mischievous and exasperated. "The Maid of Honor's waiting for you," she said, her odd voice infusing as much wicked vehemence into this innocuous phrase as was humanly possible.

There came the scrape of a chair being pushed back, and a moment later the door burst open.

"How late am I?" Snape asked.

Doors gave him a triumphant smirk, but for a moment Harry could only blink.

The person who had opened the door bore no immediate resemblance to Snape. Not only was his hair clean, it had also been trimmed and slicked back, and his black robes were pressed and bore absolutely no evidence of the Potions accidents they normally did. To say it was a difference was a vast understatement, and Harry couldn't help but feel that Uncle Vernon was in serious trouble.

"About damn time," said Doors, crossing her arms. She swept a bow. "Go on, get moving, we haven't got all day."

Snape glared at her, but swept on down the corridor nonetheless. Doors and Harry followed him, the former to make sure he didn't bolt and the latter because he had nothing better to do.

"Marge is going to eat him alive, you know," he whispered.

"Oh, yeah," Doors murmured back.

The pair grinned at the very thought.

****

Several minutes later, however, Harry had absolutely nothing to grin about. No sooner had the three of them burst into the Great Hall (Snape pointedly ignoring Marge, who started cooing) than he and the Potions master were dragged off to the photos, while Doors set out her corsages and disappeared again. After ten minutes of being poked and prodded by the various Lockharts who were arranging the pictures, his temper was frazzled and he was already beginning to wonder just what they would do if he leaped at the photographer and tore his head off.

Fortunately the vicar intervened before he had a chance to test his query, telling them that the guests were due to be seated any minute, and that they'd better get out right quick. Most of the party did so, and Harry and Dudley took their positions on either side of the great closed doors.

Professor Sinistra, who had rather grudgingly agreed to play the organ, struck up a wandering little background tune, and at a signal from the vicar (who was hiding by the side entrance), Harry and Dudley opened the doors.

One of the first guests to file in was Lucius Malfoy, arrayed in sweeping grey robes and moving arm in arm with Narcissa, who was dressed in stunning silver. The two made their way to a back corner (Harry really couldn't blame them for that; no sign of Marge and they were already looking a bit queasy), and Harry barely had time to blink before he was bowing in Mr. and Mrs. Finnigan, who gave him an encouraging sort of smile and sat as far from Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy as possible.

He had to admit it was interesting, watching all the dressed-up students and parents ambling their way in, but he was nevertheless starting to wonder just when their trick carpet was going to act up--

"SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP!"

_CRASH_

"Well, that answers that one," Harry muttered, choking back a snicker as Mr. and Mrs. Patil, both looking highly affronted, scrambled through the door and straightened their robes.

"Goodness, I don't remember there being so many tricks in this place," Mr. Patil murmured to his wife. Harry coughed, sure his face was reddening and giving him away.

Sirius showed up not long after that, grinning like a Cheshire cat and fairly jigging with anticipation. Picking up women at a wedding was a disgusting thing to do, but Harry had a feeling Sirius was going to get offers whether he wanted them or not--not for nothing did half the female population of Hogwarts nurse a secret "sweet on" for him, and he'd certainly gone all-out this time. His dress robes were royal blue, and his longish black hair had been so artfully disarrayed that Harry suspected he'd had Doors do it for him.

"Stay away from bathtub number three," he whispered as he passed Harry, fully aware of the admiring looks he was getting from most of the Hogwarts mothers.

"Right," muttered Harry, seriously afraid to know what would happen to him if he didn't.

The Hall filled quickly; they hadn't, as Harry had at first thought, gone overboard on the seating by any means. He hadn't before realized that having all the Hogwarts alumni attending also meant there would be a good many ghosts, but all around him pearly, translucent people were popping through the walls and gliding to the fringes of the Hall.

Their trick carpeting also proved to be a success--many more people than the Patils were sent sailing after stepping in the wrong place, which left Dudley petrified and Harry shaking with suppressed laughter.

Hermione and Ron went in together, Ron's eyes darting nervously around in search of Malfoy. Harry noticed he was careful to walk through on the side Dudley stood guard over, which was a very good thing--if his cousin had been drooling before, it was nothing to the look of idiocy on his face as he beheld Hermione in her dress robes. She'd chosen a festive and very pretty set, all cheery reds and made of a light, floaty material that set off the browns in her hair and eyes. She'd smoothed her hair down and tied the front wings back in two slender braids, and Harry caught more than one fellow Gryffindor staring at her in disbelief.

Ron wasn't looking too bad himself--his dress robes were brown and velvety-looking, and he'd evidently had his mother attend to his hair. He would have looked far better if he hadn't been so distracted by his search for Malfoy, but he and Hermione made it safely to a seat near the middle without any sign of him.

The Weasleys, minus Fred and George, were the next to enter, all dressed to the nines and looking as though they'd been given a thorough going-over by Mrs. Weasley before leaving their rooms. Bill's hair was still long, though his earring was conspicuously missing, and Percy, in starched robes of navy blue, was looking so self-important that Harry wanted to smack him. Ginny, on the other hand, had on a set of brilliant purple robes trimmed with silver, and he could see at once why Ron had been so angry when she bought them--the set must have cost her a small fortune, but she certainly seemed happy with them.

Harry directed them to where Ron and Hermione were sitting, and was wondering mightily how long all this was going to take when Doors and Lupin arrived, and all he could do was stare.

His aunt had never looked very human--public opinion was fairly unanimous in pronouncing her more of an elf than anything, but it wasn't likely that anyone looking at her now could say otherwise if they'd wanted to. 

She'd let her hair down, so that it spilled in a slightly stringy and flyaway mess to her knees, and tucked behind her pointed ears it made her weathered, mischievously elfin face more unusual than ever. Her long robes were a rich, dark wood brown and edged with deep green, the collar run through with a single silver thread that set off the ones in her hair. The fact that they weren't eight sizes too large only served to enhance the effect, for while in her normal robes she could get away with having the figure of an eleven-year-old, this set made it quite obvious that she could have swapped clothing with the second years if she'd wanted to. No one could have called her beautiful, not in any consciously understood sense of the word, but Harry couldn't help staring at her nonetheless.

Doors laughed, the odd magic of her voice snapping him out of his reverie. "Clean up pretty good, don't we?" she asked, elbowing Lupin in the ribs. The two had apparently gone for a pair effect, for Lupin's robes were the same wood-brown hue as Doors's, though he'd rather wisely forgone the green trim. 

Harry nodded dumbly.

"Well, we're grabbing seats up front, so mind you join us once your duties are done," she said, something in her smirk making his stomach drop about three inches. She and Lupin proceeded to the front row, both pausing to bait Sirius, who was already surrounded by a small crowd of admiring females.

Harry shook his head; the Hall was nearly full, and any minute now he and Dudley would be getting the signal to shut the doors and march up the aisle for the candle-lighting. He seriously doubted whether Dudley would be up to such a task in front of a hall full of wizards, but he hoped for the sake of Marge's patience that his cousin would try.

The last few stragglers trickled in, lightly serenaded by a choppy rendition of a love song written by Wendelin the Weird after her fourteenth burning, and the vicar bade Harry and Dudley to shut the doors. Harry managed this without much trouble, but Dudley, who had never been one for physical activity and thus had the strength of a blowfly, wound up having to hurl his significant bulk at the heavy wooden slab before it would shut all the way. He let out an admirable "Oof!" in the process, which the audience courteously ignored.

Harry took up his metal candle-lighter and delivered a sharp kick to Dudley's shin, warning him not to collapse or wet his pants. The two started down the long red aisle, Harry actually remembering to put his left foot first. Dudley of course did not, and so wound up huffing and puffing about two steps off-key with the music and bobbing his light like a lost hinkypunk.

Things went perfect as punch in spite of this, while Harry willed himself not to flush redder than a beet under the eyes of so many people and Dudley waddled gracelessly, until they reached the altar and began lighting the long candelabras to either side of it. No sooner had he reached his light over his head than Dudley let out an extremely rude noise that Uncle Vernon used to blame on 'barking spiders.' His face immediately went the same shade as Hermione's robes, and Harry very wisely decided to hold his breath until he was done. He was rather concerned over the candles, however--if they exploded, it wouldn't be the first time a burst of Dursley flatulence had set the house alight.

Several guests coughed, but Harry managed to make it to his seat beside Doors and Lupin without further incident. Doors took his hand and squeezed it sympathetically.

The vicar strolled up the aisle next, looking as nervous as ever in his high-collared robes. He laid his book of sacraments on the altar and cleared his throat several times, tugging on his collar and already sweating profusely.

Harry turned in his chair to watch the side doors, just in time to see McGonagall and Trelawney trying to squeeze through at once. Of course they got nicely stuck, and it wasn't until a pink-clad foot shot out and kicked Trelawney hard on the rear that the pair got moving again.

Harry groaned. "Here we go," he muttered.

A wave of near-silent tittering swept the room as the crowd got their first view of the hideous bridesmaids' dresses, but the look on McGonagall's face was enough to freeze the laughter in Harry's throat. Her mouth was set in the thinnest of thin lines, and her eyes were narrowed and cold.

Trelawney, on the other hand, seemed so torn between misty-eyed rapture and irritation at having to walk with McGonagall that she looked rather constipated. Someone had obviously told her to leave off the jewelry, but her long emerald earrings still glinted stubbornly in her ears.

There was a brief scuffle as they reached the altar and both tried to turn right, and Harry heard McGonagall hiss quite distinctly, "Sybil, get over there or I'll shove my foot so far up your--"

She glanced at the vicar and fell silent. Somewhere across the room, Sirius snorted.

Snape and Petunia entered a moment later, and Harry took one look at them and had to bury his face in his hands, teetering dangerously on the verge of insane laughter.

They couldn't have made more of a contrast if they'd tried. Petunia, as bony and horse-faced as ever in her frilly monstrosity of a dress, her blonde hair as terrifying as Marge's had been and her eyes crusted with lurid pink eyeshadow, looked as though the whole room smelled of a particularly foul Dungbomb. Snape, on the other hand, would have looked the perfect ghastly Death Eater if he hadn't been wearing an expression roughly similar to that of a lovesick cow--Harry half expected him to start mooing.

Petunia, for her part, looked more than happy to part with Snape at the altar, though she obviously wasn't thrilled to be standing by McGonagall.

There was a decent pause, and then Professor Sinistra struck up a somewhat overenthusiastic wedding march. Harry took his head from his hands and ventured a look at the far doors, and immediately wished he hadn't.

The doors had swung open of their own accord, and standing in their place was one of the most horrible sights he'd ever seen. Marge alone had been bad enough, but Marge and Lockhart together was enough to make him wish he could just roll his eyes back in his head and pass out.

The two of them started buoyantly down the aisle, and for a moment, just one fleeting, wild moment, Harry thought they might actually make it through this thing without any major disasters. But only for a moment.

As the couple drew nearer he rubbed his eyes, not sure if he was seeing things correctly. The tittering that rippled across the crowd like a wave assured him he was not, and without thinking he smacked his forehead and groaned inwardly.

Antennas were sprouting from Marge's hair, pushing their way slowly through the hairspray-stiffened mass as she and the oblivious Lockhart sailed down the aisle. By the time she reached the altar they were an impressive two feet long, waving and bobbing above her, and Harry could fairly feel the silent wrath of the Lockharts rising off the audience in waves.

He glanced at Doors and Lupin, both of whom were keeping carefully neutral expressions on their faces, and then at Sirius, who was clearly enjoying himself so much that he probably wouldn't notice if Marge started stripping. The Weasley twins were still nowhere to be seen, and Denis and Natalie's horde of über-pranksters looked as innocent as the children they weren't. 

He didn't spend long pondering the identity of the party behind the antennae, however--as soon as Marge set foot on the crimson velvet under the arbor, the bobbing projections started flashing red and green, alternating to the unheard tune of what was unmistakably 'Louie Louie'.

The chortling grew worse, and somewhere behind him Parvati Patil choked audibly. Harry himself was wondering how long he could hold out, but McGonagall reached out and none-to-surreptitiously snapped the projectiles off, glaring severely at the whole lot of them as she did so.

The vicar, looking more nervous and frightened than ever, mopped his sweating face with a handkerchief and cleared his throat. "Er, dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of unwavering love--" here Marge wiped drool off her chin, staring avidly at Snape "--which has blessed the two who stand before me with its sacred and indefinable bond."

McGonagall coughed dryly, glaring at Marge so fiercely that she dragged her eyes back to the vicar, though her expression clearly stated that her mind was still elsewhere--just where, Harry _really _didn't want to know. 

The vicar looked at her questioningly, before continuing in the same slightly nasal voice, "Marriage is a symbol of such love, and of the bond of fidelity that goes along with it--"

The entire Hall, minus the Lockharts, let out a universal snort. Petunia rolled her eyes, and Snape looked ready to kill.

"--and it is not to be entered lightly. I trust that both of you are willing to devote your lives to one another, and cleave together in an inseparable--"

Lockhart was nodding eagerly, but it was plain that Marge hadn't the faintest idea the little man was speaking at all. Whether Uncle Vernon noticed this or was just annoyed, Harry didn't know, but he barked out, "Get on with it, man!" in such a snarling tone that he might as well have been talking to Harry.

Petunia glowered at him, then glanced at Snape, who gave a little start and nearly knocked over one of the candleholders. 

"_Anyway,_" said the vicar, clearly annoyed by all the interruptions. "These two have decided to enter the bonds of holy matrimony, and now that I've reminded you all what a solemn rite that is, I believe the bride and groom have specially prepared their own wedding vows."

Doors and Lupin shifted slightly in their seats, and Harry immediately glanced around to make sure all the bathtubs were still in their correct places. He tensed, ready to run for it should any of their 'special' beans decide to make their presence known.

His attention returned to Lockhart, who was beaming like an imbecile--he had to have polished his teeth with Vaseline, nobody had choppers that shiny--and holding up a small card.

"My dearest darling Marjorie," he began, in a voice so sugar-coated it fairly dripped with saccharine. "Light of my life, treasure of my heart, Squidgy-widgey-poo, darlingest snookums honeybaby--"

By now half the Hall was turning green, looking anywhere but forward and pressing handkerchiefs to their mouths. Lucius and Narcissa in particular seemed ready to toss their cookies, but just when things were looking serious there came a scrap of salvation--in the form of a knock at the door.

"--sweet pudding-pie pooky--" Lockhart stopped. "I say, what was that?" he asked, in the high monotone of an extremely bad actor. Harry could have sworn that he muttered aside, "Dammit, they're early."

The entire hall looked as bewildered as Harry felt--who would come calling on Christmas day, and why would they bother to knock at Hogwarts?--but all seemed more than grateful for the interruption.

The knock was repeated, three sound thuds on the great front doors, and the vicar, looking even more terrified, said, "You, lad, go on and see who that is."

Harry glanced at Doors and hopped to his feet, glad enough for a chance to get away from Marge and Lockhart. He trotted out the far doors and through the bright entrance hall, approaching the front doors with unusual trepidation.

He eased one open, and found himself confronted with--

"Fred?" he said, bemused and just a little annoyed. "What are you _doing?" _

It was indeed Fred Weasley, standing directly in front of George, but now that Harry got a look at him he realized the boy was terrified.

"H-H-Harry," he stuttered, his face whiter than paper beneath its freckles. "Harry, w-we're in b-b-big trouble."

Harry gawked at him, wondering just how in hell he'd managed to go off his rocker when another voice spoke, a voice so soft and sibilantly evil that he shuddered from head to toe.

"What he means, young Potter, is that you're in big trouble."

The blood drained from Harry's face. For five seconds solid he simply stared, unable to believe his eyes. It _couldn't _be, it would be too unfair, and besides, the bastard was _dead........._

Before his horrified gaze stood the image that had haunted his nightmares for the last six years, and one which he thought had bought the farm at the end of last term. What he was doing here now was beyond anyone's guess, but standing on the front steps was none other than Lord Voldemort, with an entire army flanked out across the grounds behind him. The only thought in Harry's shell-shocked brain as he stared into the Dark Lord's merciless red eyes was 'Boy, we shouldn't have invited _all_ the alumni', but what came out when he opened his mouth was--

__

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! IT'S **MOLDYWARTS**!!!!!"

Before he could blink he had pulled Fred and George into the castle, slamming the great and heavy door in Voldemort's chalky face. The two of them looked ready to drop dead of fright, but both gamely followed Harry as he pelted back into the Great Hall.

"Well?" said the vicar, as though he hadn't heard Harry's bellow. "Who was it?"

The look Harry shot the little man was so witheringly horrible that even Snape seemed to flinch before it. "Who was it? _Who was it? _Oh, let's see, the milk man, the garbage collector, and the streetsweeper were all having a bender on a flying Harley. IT WAS VOLDEMORT, YOU TIT, **VOLDEMORT**!!!" And so saying, he promptly collapsed onto the plush carpet.

Had he thrown a bomb into the Hall, he could have wreaked no greater havoc. Half the assembly leaped to their feet (several of the ladies trying to jump into Sirius's arms at once), some with cries of horror and some with barely restrained whoops of joy. 

Harry was barely conscious of the mad stampede that threatened to follow, as every witch and wizard in the Hall flew about like startled chickens. Petunia, who was looking downright confused, caught Trelawney by the collar and demanded to know just who this Moldywarts was. Trelawney shrieked something in reply, and a moment later Petunia had leaped into Snape's arms and begun screaming hysterically.

Snape didn't look at all displeased by this, but Uncle Vernon sure did--he bounded to his feet with a bellow like an enraged bull, wading through the crowd and sending the little vicar flying with a stray blow from his flabby elbow. Despite the fact that Snape was a wizard and Vernon only a very hacked-off Muggle, it probably would have been the end of the Potions master, had not Dudley jumped to his feet as well and at once let out a truly thunderous fart. Most unfortunately, he happened to be standing directly in front of a candle when he did so, and a four-foot jet of flame shot backwards and promptly set the entire arbor alight.

"FIRE!" bellowed Mr. Patil, and at once about eight hundred different jets of water sprayed at the blaze, soaking everything within twenty feet of it but making little difference in the small inferno, which was fueled by all the cheap chintz Marge had insisted on.

"Welcome to the end of the world," muttered Doors.

Harry turned and looked at her, as she gazed with something like wry amusement at the mayhem. "Come on, honey, that door's not going to hold on its own without some help."

Harry followed her numbly into the entrance hall, watching without seeing as she and Lupin bespelled the great doors with as many tricky incantations as they could think of. Shutters slammed over all the windows, barring themselves against the black tide that lay in wait beyond them. Within a matter of minutes Hogwarts had turned itself into a seemingly impregnable fortress, and thus the way was paved for the Inevitable Catastrophe.

::Author laughs insanely:: Muahahahaha! The fat's in the fire now! I realize what a truly horrid place that was to break at, but as this part is already about fifteen pages longer than I wanted it, you'll just have to live until I get the next part out. Please don't mimic Dudley and shoot streams of fiery methane at me; all this does have a point, as lame and unlikely as that may seem. ^_^ 


	4. Part Four (subtitled: The Inevitable Cat...

A/N: Okay, I know this part isn't half so long as the others and probably won't make much sense just yet, but I decided not to hold onto it until I've finished the next chapter because, well, you people are spamming me, and frankly several of you are starting to scare me. ::nervous laughter:: Anyhoozle, everything that happens in here is fully explained in the next chapter (well, as much as I ever explain anything ^_^), and several loose ends are dealt with. Also, since several of you have been wondering, no, I haven't forgotten the whole business with Silversleeves, and there _is_ a reason that Lupin and Sirius were able to bring Doors back--you'll just have to wait until chapter after next to find out what it is. :) Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ plot these things out in advance....(Well, sort of. ^_^)

The Inevitable Catastrophe

While the Hall proceeded to throw itself into a chaos that would have put a Three Stooges' movie to shame, Harry scrambled to locate Ron and Hermione. Just as the inferno of the arbor was doused he found them, both white-faced and fighting their way to the fringes of the room. No sooner had he run into his aunt than a thought had occurred to him, and the sooner he could act on it, the better.

"Harry!" Ron cried, looking shaken. Someone had trod on the hem of his brown dress robes, ripping all the stitching out, and Hermione had half a large red poinsettia blossom sticking straight up in her hair. Both of them were scared nearly witless.

"Oh, Harry, is it really--him?" Hermione asked tremulously, her eyes very round.

Harry, panting, only managed a grim nod. "Oh, it's him all right," he said. "Now come on, I doubt we've got long before he and his...army...get over the shock and start hammering on us with all they've got." And without another word he seized both his friends by the wrists and fairly fled, darting around Hagrid and nearly slamming into an extremely distressed McGonagall.

"Harry, where are we going?" Hermione demanded, as the three streaked through the corridors and slammed up the flight of stairs that led to Gryffindor Tower.

"I need....to get...the Neverstone," Harry choked, more out of breath than ever. Hermione looked at him as though he'd gone starkers, but Ron, who for once in his life caught on quicker, sped up with him until they reached the landing by the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Toenail clipping, toenail clipping!" they gasped, and the Fat Lady, looking alarmed, swung forward to admit them to the deserted common room. The light was dim, for the shutters over the window had slammed and barred themselves and the fire in the grate gave only a little glow.

Hermione, clutching a stitch in her side, fell back as Ron and Harry scrabbled up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. She evidently had caught on to Harry's plan, however, for as they reached the door she pelted after them and nearly collapsed on Neville's bed.

"You're off your onion," she gasped, as Harry threw the lid of his trunk open and flung his spare robes around the room. 

"No he's not, it's probably the only chance we've got," said Ron, shaking out each robe in turn. "But where _is_ the damn thing?"

Harry, exasperated, finally flipped his trunk over and emptied its contents all over the floor. The small black orb he had been so desperately searching for rolled away across the crimson carpet, the faint speck of light deep in its center flaring brighter.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and raced to pick it up, cradling the thing in his hands. Its coldness swiftly vanished as the faint light within it grew slowly brighter, though it seemed to be taking its time about waking up.

Hermione, having caught her breath somewhat, looked at the orb with some trepidation. "Harry, I don't know if you ought to be using that thing just yet," she said, wiping her forehead. "I mean, you've never tried it before, and so little is actually known about Neverstones that they're considered highly dangerous."

Harry didn't look up to reply; the stone was humming faintly, and he could see that the colors deep within it were swirling and tumbling in a senseless, random fashion.

"Aw, sod off, Hermione," said Ron, peering intently at the stone. "What could it do?"

"Yeah, and I'm only trying to have a look at things," interjected Harry, before Hermione could open her mouth. "See just what we're up against." Tongue between his teeth he squinted hard, willing the churning smoke to make some kind of sense.

"Well then, oughtn't you be showing it to Dumbledore?" Hermione's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Harry, I seriously hope you're not thinking of taking on Voldemort single-handed again. I mean, a person's luck will only hold so far, and yours--"

"Herm, you know what Doors said; he's not supposed to show it to anyone, even us!" cried Ron, some of the color returning to his face. "He runs to Dumbledore and the whole world will know he's got one of these things, and ten to one it'll get taken away before he can use it--I say, Harry, what's wrong?"

Ron's voice was reasonably alarmed, for Harry felt himself go grey as a thick, warm, choking blackness washed over him like a smothering blanket, threatening to drown him in its ghastly depths. He threw the orb away and clutched at his head, gulping air like a near-drowned diver and choking.

"Harry!"

Ron and Hermione were kneeling beside him, both looking downright terrified. The shutters at the windows were rattling, and the orb had at last flared into full brilliance in the gloom under Seamus's bed.

Harry, still gasping, leaned over and snatched it, stumbling to his feet.

"Interference," he muttered weakly, feeling as though he might topple over at any moment. He passed a hand over his eyes, wondering just what in hell had caused such a horrible thing to come from his orb. "Too much magic--it's interfering with whatever talks through this thing, and I'm not powerful enough to clear it up."

He wondered at the words that came unbidden from his mouth--how did he know what was wrong with the thing? It was now humming warm and soothing in his hand, the colors dipping and whirling in something that at least resembled a pattern. He didn't know what, in the middle of all this mayhem, had made him think of this strange orb in the first place, but he was beginning to realize that there was more to it even that Doors had told him.

"Harry? You okay?"

He gave a start and nearly dropped the ball--both Ron and Hermione were standing beside him, staring at him in some concern.

"Maybe Hermione's right," said Ron, looking slightly askance at Harry. "Maybe you ought to leave that thing alone for now."

Harry privately agreed with him, but somehow he knew it was use the stone or get smashed into itty bitty pieces by a load of walking corpses.

However, the shutters were rattling madly now, and he realized that whatever else they did, staying up here wasn't a very wise decision.

Ron and Hermione had evidently figured this out as well, for they both started pulling him toward the door.

"Come on, Harry, even if you don't want to share that thing, we can't stay here," said Hermione, glancing nervously at the straining shutters. "Dumbledore's sure to get things calmed down down there, and there's going to be another panic if they can't find us."

She was right, and Harry knew it, but at the same time he wished both she and Ron would shut up for a minute and let him listen.

The three clattered down the spiral staircase to the common room, which seemed to be fairly rocking under the pressure from outside. Ron shoved open the portrait-hole and scrambled through, pulling Harry and Hermione after him.

Harry hung back uneasily, glancing at the orb in his hand. It would make a noticeable bulge in his pocket, and he knew that chaos or no, someone would be sure to question it.

Hermione seemed to read his mind. "Oh, for heaven's _sake_," she snapped, rolling her eyes. "Harry, don't you know how to disguise _anything?"_ She pulled her wand from her belt, muttered something that sounded very much like, "_Rubando_", and a moment later Harry found himself holding an extremely large, rainbow-tangled rubber band ball.

"There," she said, satisfied. "You can turn it back with _finite incantatem,_ but I wouldn't do that until you're sure you want to."

Harry looked at her in some admiration as the trio hurried on down the hall, avoiding windows wherever possible and ignoring the shouts from the paintings on the walls. The Fat Lady, who had abandoned her post sometime after letting them in, was passed out on an eighteenth-century sofa and being fanned by a gaggle of ancient Egyptian acolytes. Several suits of armor jogged clankily past them, wheezing and huffing and brandishing a lot of dusty, broken-down weapons that looked like they'd crack in half if you breathed wrong.

As they drew near the Great Hall the three made as little noise as possible, hoping to slip back into things unnoticed and avoid a massive telling-off. Harry kept his hand on the ball in his pocket the entire time, and even debated performing a Seam Charm to seal it in there.

Hermione, who was in the lead, stopped and crossed her arms. "Well, at least Lockhart got what he wanted," she said, in a tone Harry had very rarely heard her use.

"Eh?" said Ron, who was quite distracted by a large line of spiders scuttling across the far wall.

Hermione turned and looked at him. "A wedding Hogwarts will never forget." She jerked her head at the last corner near the end of the corridor, around which stood the doors to the Great Hall.

"Hoora for him," Harry muttered without much enthusiasm, debating whether or not he wanted to have his eyes open when he came around that corner.

A cursory assessment of the scene told him he didn't. One of the great wooden doors was hanging off its hinges, but things weren't looking quite so hectic inside. They had got the fire out, and most of the hysterically weeping had been herded off to one side and so weren't in the way any more. 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief once he'd tiptoed through the doors, feeling oddly safer now that he was lost in the crowd again. In spite of all that was going on, he couldn't help but feel that they had a good chance of coming out on top--he was deliberately ignoring the unknown reason for Voldemort's sudden appearance, not to mention his sudden resurrection; worrying about things like _that_ wasn't going to do anyone any good.

In the midst of the chaos, Dumbledore stood up on what was left of the altar (the arbor still sizzling and smoking behind him) and raised his hands. Silence fell as swiftly as if this were simply the Welcoming Feast.

"Students, guests, and otherwise," he said, his tone unusually serious. "In case you may not have noticed, we have something of a catastrophe on our hands." 

Somewhere across the room, Lucius Malfoy snorted. Several glares and a Furnunculus curse found their way to him from various parts of the Hall.

Dumbledore continued as if nothing had interrupted him. "I must ask you all not to panic, as viable an option as that might seem right now--at any rate, not until we know more about just what is going on here. Now--"

He stopped. Harry looked at him, bewildered, until a low, fruity chuckling reached his ears, a self-satisfied snickering that could only come from one person.

He turned his head with the rest of the Hall, to look at Lockhart, looking so immensely self-important it made Harry want to gag, standing near the far doors with his hands folded like a monk. He'd somehow ditched his tuxedo robes for angelic white ones, and the Hall-wide tussle seemed to have had no effect on his wavy golden hair. He was beaming wider than Harry had ever seen him grin, every one of his gleaming white teeth sparkling to an almost blinding brilliance.

"My _good_ Headmaster," he said, after pausing an impressive moment to give the crowd the full effect of his absurd splendor. "Why so grim? Surely you realize that the entire problem is within rein!"

Harry and the rest of the Hall stared at him as though he'd gone off his rocker. If Lockhart noticed this he didn't mind--he simply stood, waiting, Harry supposed, for someone to ask him what he meant by that.

"Barking mad," muttered Sirius, who appeared to be rather effectively 'comforting' a distraught Mrs. Chang. Nobody else spoke, however, and so Lockhart continued undaunted.

"What need have you for worry when you have _me_ around?" he asked brightly, his grin melting seamlessly into a look of self-righteous modesty. "Am I or am I not the most accomplished wizard of the age? I mean, I think if I can handle a pack of rabid werewolves I can handle something as simple as a single Dark wizard, can't I?" He raised his eyes to the ceiling (now blackened over with a lot of very ominous-looking black clouds), hands clasped before him and expression uplifted. "It is a high and lonely destiny I serve, but someone must be willing to protect all you lesser creatures from the perils of the world."

There was a scattered (and very short) burst of applause from the various Lockharts dispersed throughout the Hall, but most of the inhabitants were staring at him in flabbergasted disbelief. Surely this idiot didn't mean what he was saying?

He most certainly did, and apparently he was by no means finished. "Why, I'd just been _looking_ for a chance to show dear Margie the full extent of my powers. Really, I couldn't have planned this better myself."

This phrase struck Harry as extremely odd, though for a moment he couldn't figure out why.

"Oh, no way," he muttered, the pit of his stomach sinking another three notches. "He _wouldn't_......."

For he had remembered Lockhart's bizarre muttering at the start of this fresh nightmare, something along the lines of "They're early." Slow, horrible, and extremely unwilling comprehension dawned on him, as he realized once and for all just what a colossal idiot Lockhart was.

"You didn't," he whispered, feeling his eyes widen as he slowly advanced on the still-beaming Gilderoy. "Not even YOU could be that buggered _stupid._"

Lockhart's smile faded a little. "Whatever do you mean, Harry?"

"You did it on purpose," he said, his glasses dangling and giving him a frightfully crazed look. He seized Lockhart by the front of his robes, baring his teeth in a very uncharacteristic snarl. "You did it on purpose, didn't you, you bug-brained blonde prat! You brought Voldemort back so you could look like some sort of a big shot, didn't you?" Harry was breathing as hard as though he'd just run a marathon, and Lockhart was shrinking away from him.

Ringing silence fell over the Hall. It was completely unbelievable--surely _nobody _could be that stupid, not even Lockhart. And the look on his face told everyone quite clearly that he was. 

The silence lasted for almost a full minute, as nearly two thousand extremely flabbergasted guests struggled to come to terms with this extraordinary new bit of information. Harry released Lockhart's robes, his hands trembling violently as a wave of horrible numbness washed over his brain.

The Hall likely would have stood like that interminably, had not the hands of Fate galvanized them to action once more. Lockhart was still standing there, grinning like a dolt, when there came a flurry of movement from the midst of the stillness and--

"Bloody BUGGER!"

_Crack!_

Lockhart staggered backward, one hand clapped to his brilliant red cheek. McGonagall had lunged forward and socked him one with all the strength she could muster, not caring that she split half her seams in doing so.

"You IDIOT!" she shrieked, catching his collar so tightly that his face reddened like a beet in a surprisingly short amount of time. "What on earth were you thinking, you stupid buggering son of a--don't you realize what you ARE?"  
Lockhart, who could now officially be called terrified, looked at her helplessly. "What? I--I'm a legend!" he said weakly, his lip trembling..

"You're a FRAUD!" bellowed McGonagall, her voice as loud as though she were shouting through a magical megaphone. "A phony! A complete louse! YOU'LL SHOOT FLAMING MEATBALLS OUT YOUR BLOODY ARSE BEFORE YOU EVER STAND A CHANCE AGAINST YOU-KNOW-WHO!"

And she glared at him so ferociously it was a wonder he didn't shrivel away to a cinder on the spot.

Harry blinked, the feeling slowly returning to his brain. Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this, and as he stumbled back into cold reality, he realized that the great front doors were rattling so hard it could be heard even in the Great Hall.

"But...I..." Lockhart protested feebly, his face gone deathly grey. "I..." His eyes were rounder than sickles, and he was mouthing like a dying fish at something behind McGonagall. Just what became all too evident a moment later.

"You...you LIAR!" shrieked Marge, pointing a thick finger dramatically. "You horrible fake! You told me you were the greatest wizard of the age....Order of Merlin, Third Class...YOU TRICKED ME, YOU RUDDY BASTARD!" Marge's veil been ripped half off, though the density of her hairspray was keeping it stuck to her head like glue. "Why, I was right all along," she said, her tone suddenly changing. "I knew dear Sevvie was the one for me..." She rounded on Snape and Petunia, both of whom took a noticeable step backward.

Harry, who was feeling far from at ease amidst all this shouting (not to mention an unusually large torrent of expletives) rather wisely began sneaking to the fringes of the room, avoiding the sight of his aunt fairly glomped onto the Potions master.

"Oi," he muttered, wiping his forehead.

Things were looking grim for poor Snape, what with Marge bearing down on he and Petunia like an overzealous Rottweiler, but they presently grew far worse. Petunia, who was still clinging to him from her earlier fright, wrapped him in a visibly rib-crushing hug and fairly bared her teeth at Marge.

"Oh, no you don't, you fat old sea-cow," she snarled, seemingly oblivious of the look of agony on Snape's face. "You seemed to like Lockwart well enough when he was a pompous ass, and you can keep him now he's a sniveling little Nancy boy. I think you'll be very happy together."

Marge halted, looking ready to shoot some flaming meatballs of her own, but a bellow from Uncle Vernon stopped them both short.

"PETUNIA!" he roared, spit flying from his mouth and one of his beady eyes twitching. "You get away from him this instant! You're my wife, by--"

"Not anymore, I'm not!" Petunia shrieked, pulling the ring off her left hand and hurling it with surprising accuracy at Vernon's forehead. "I want a divorce!"

Uncle Vernon's eyes bulged out of his fat head at that, his face going a sickly, mottle purple and a vein standing out grotesquely at his temple. He bellowed something else, which Petunia, still crushing the breath out of Snape, struggled to shout over.

"Some family you've got there, Harry. Voldemort comes back from the dead with a horde of new friends, and all they can do is sit around and have a marital spat."

Sirius had materialized behind him, arms crossed and surveying the scene with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

"Well, now, they _are_ Muggles," said Lupin, appearing on Harry's right. "We have to make allowances for their ignorance." 

Harry shook his head. "No we don't. Nothing can excuse that much stupidity." His point was made clear by Marge, who, lost for words, picked a chair up and hurled it at her brother.

"Hey, where's Doors?" Harry asked, noticing that the inseparable trio appeared to be, well, separated.

"She had to send an owl," said Sirius, not taking his eyes off the feuding Dursleys. Aunt Marge had given up on Vernon, and was now trying, with a spectacular lack of success, to pry Aunt Petunia off an extremely unhappy-looking Snape.

"What?" Harry said, not sure he had heard right.

"She had to send an owl," Sirius repeated.

Somehow, Harry thought it better not to pry further. He had a feeling his head might explode if he tried.

Meanwhile, the Dursleys' little spat was growing more violent by the minute, and Sirius and Lupin exchanged grave glances.

"How long do you give it?" Sirius asked dryly.

"Oh, another fifteen seconds or so," responded Lupin.

Harry didn't have to ask what they meant by that--Petunia had just called Marge something he bet she definitely hadn't found in a Vanderbilt manual, when suddenly there sounded one of the loudest bangs he had ever heard in his life, followed by a shower of charred confetti, porcelain bits, and a number of brilliantly glowing flashes. Half the crowd flung themselves to the floor, thinking the castle was being stormed, and Mrs. Chang appeared seemingly from nowhere and attached herself to Sirius like a leech.

Harry felt his jaw drop, but Sirius and Lupin merely looked at one another and chorused, "The beans."

"Well, now I know why you told me to stay away from bathtub three," he muttered, slapping out a spark. "How many of those things did you plant, or do I want to know?"

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough," Lupin said grimly.

How right he was. As though an invisible army were firing mortar-shells, one by one various objects around the room started blasting themselves to smithereens, scoring great scorch marks on the stone walls and singeing the tapestries. The rest of the Hall proceeded to hit the dirt, cowering under the white chairs in their wedding finery. Lucius Malfoy, havin successfully rid himself of the effects of that Furnunculus Curse, was sheltering his wife and bellowing something at their terrified butler, who was too busy trying to put out his burning eyebrows to care.

"Ugh," Harry muttered. He turned to ask Sirius how long this was going to go on for, but found that he and Mrs. Chang were a bit too busy to notice.

"Come along, Harry," Lupin said, shooting a long-suffering glance at Sirius. "Something tells me he's not going to be of much help for a while."

The last of the beans petered out as the two of them met Ron and Hermione near one of the smaller side-doors. Harry had a feeling Lupin didn't want to be around when somebody figured out what had happened, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of the rude interruption Sirius was likely to get. 

"All right, you three," Lupin said. "Lorna ought to be back soon enough, and she and Sirius and I can probably keep everyone distracted for a little while longer. You two--" he nodded at Ron and Hermione, both of whom were still looking extremely nervous "--need to make sure nothing interferes with Harry while he's doing his part. Harry, I want you to take the stone and find out as much as you can about what's going on outside, and tell it to Dumbledore as soon as possible. He won't ask too many questions, there's not time for them."

He glanced up and down the dim corridor, his face pale and weary. "And be careful," he added. "I don't know just what Voldemort's got out there, but I'm by no means the only werewolf around."

Harry nodded, not at all happy about having such a weight dumped on his shoulders. Sure, it was all well and good to play with the thing, but what did he know about really using a Neverstone? Suppose he tried to see outside and got nothing but rainbow smoke and a lot of fuzz? 

He didn't worry long, however, for before he realized what he was doing he found himself trotting up the dim corridor, Ron and Hermione at his heels and his hand clutched so tightly around his pocket that his knuckles were white. For a moment he puzzled over just where his pattering feet were taking him, until he passed the portrait of Sir Cadogan-surrounded by a gaggle of World War One nurses-and he realized with sinking heart that the Neverstone was drawing him to the North Tower.

"Harry?"

Harry turned, an odd feeling of vertigo washing over him. Ron and Hermione were both hanging nervously back, their eyes fixed on his pocket. Not bothering to look down, he pulled the orb out and was nearly blinded.

Though still a rubber band ball, the Neverstone was shimmering brighter than Harry would have thought possible. It made all of them wince and squint, and Harry, feeling very much as though he was in way over his head, wondered how on earth it was supposed to show him anything when he couldn't even look at it.

"Ugh, finite incantatem, finite incantatem!" said Hermione, shielding her eyes. 

In one swift, fluid movement, the orb melted from rubber band ball to its normal form, the light dimming to a tolerable level.

"Well," Harry said shakily, aware now more than ever of just how powerful the stone was. "Let's…get to it, shall we?"

Ron and Hermione looked anything but willing, but no sooner had Harry spoken than the silvery ladder to Professor Trelawney's room descended with a thud, making them all jump.

Harry looked at it, and at the orb. "Oi," he muttered eloquently.

The Divination classroom was almost unrecognizable without its usual blanket of sweet smoke. Harry blinked a moment in the dimness, avoiding the rattling shutters and taking a nervous seat at one of the round tables.

"Do you...do you know what to do with it?" Hermione asked tremulously, sitting across from him.

Harry shook his head. "I think it's more like does it know what to do with me," he said.

Ron took the other chair, he and Hermione both eying Harry as though he were a bomb that might explode at any second. It made him more nervous than ever, and try as he might to collect his scattered thoughts, all he wound up with was a faint ringing in his head.

He set the orb in the center of the table, cupping his hands around it to keep it from rolling off the table. His stomach felt like it was about to fall right out and land on his feet, when suddenly the light of the Neverstone changed.

Harry let out a faint croak that nobody heard, bending down until the tip of his nose was mere inches from the whirling rainbow surface of the ball. "What the--"

His words were cut off by a sudden violent jar, which pitched him forward and seemed to suck him down some giant drain hole. The colors whirled around him, enveloping him in a blurred cocoon like some weird insect.

With a strangled cry he plummeted what seemed like the entire length of the Tower, stopping suddenly in the middle of, of all things, a garden.

At least, he _thought_ it was a garden, but no garden he had ever seen looked quite like this. Dull, clouded grey light shone down on a green lawn stiff with frost-wherever this was, it had escaped the reach of the smothering snow. A high white wall covered in some creeper loomed before him, old and half-tumbled into the strange plants below it. Interspersed among the greenery were a load of odd little humps, about waist-height and covered in little colored flowers that looked oddly like-

"Tie-dye," Harry muttered, throwing up his hands. "Lovely, it's spreading."

He was quite willing to ignore the complete bizarreness of the situation and get on with his business, but at that moment a door swung open in one of the strange little barrows, and out popped a creature Harry identified at once, though he hadn't seen one since fourth year. 

It was a small thing, perhaps a foot in height, dressed all in green tweed and leather and sporting a very odd hat over a shock of hair redder than Ron's. It held a small pipe in its tiny hands, and there was a decidedly furtive look on its clever, pointed face.

"Blasted women," it muttered, in a brogue thicker than Mrs. Finnigan's. "A body's got to have a smoke of a mornin', and hang the cold!"

He brought a tiny match up to his pipe and puffed merrily away, and Harry, for a moment struck dumb by the sight of a leprechaun so close, shook himself. 

"Er--" he said, not quite not quite knowing how to talk to such a creature, and given his past experiences with things like this, not at all certain the little blighter would even see him. "Er-can you see me?" he asked.

The leprechaun jumped, dropping his pipe to the cobblestones with a clatter.

"Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph!" it fired indignantly, shooting Harry a withering glare as he retrieved the pipe. "Is tha' any whey to snaek up on a body?"

Harry let out a sigh of relief. "Sorry," he said. It's just…."

He stopped, the full absurdity of his situation finally dawning on him. Here he was, in the midst of what could potentially be the greatest war in all of magical history, talking to a leprechaun in some garden that very likely existed only inside an extremely strange glass ball. He had no real idea how he'd gotten here, nor the faintest clue how he was supposed to get back, and for all he knew his real self was having seizures on the floor of Professor Trelawney's room somewhere far away.

The leprechaun puffed his pipe thoughtfully. "Lad," he said, crossing his arms as though about to deliver a statement of profound import, "Ye look like someone just fed ye a plum cake made o' prunes."

And Harry, to his very great surprise, snorted.

The little creature shivered, taking another draw at his pipe. "Ye've got a familiar look about ye," he said, his bright brown eyes scrutinizing Harry closely. "What's yer name?"

"Harry Potter," Harry answered instantly, not bothering to care what the little creature did with this knowledge-he had a funny feeling that his feet were turning into blocks of ice where he stood.

Harry was used to having witches and wizards do a slight double take at his name, but he never figured that any of the Little People would have cause to know who he was. The leprechaun, however, gave such a start that his pipe once again tumbled to the stones, this time landing with a rather nasty crack.

"Ye're no'," he said, grabbing the front of Harry's robes and pulling him down to his eye level. He stared at him for nearly a minute, one eye narrowed as he inspected some invisible something in Harry's face.

"Blimey," it muttered weakly. "Ye _are_." And before Harry had a chance to blink, he found his hand seized in a surprisingly strong grip, as the leprechaun pumped it up and down.

"It's a pleasure t' meet ye, lad," he said, grinning from ear to pointed ear. "Name's Conn O'Lenihan. I've been a-waitin' to meet ye fer years now."

Harry stared at him, bewildered.

"Er," he offered, his mind suddenly blanker than Crabbe's face.

Conn the leprechaun looked at him keenly. "What?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. "Sure, yer aunt must a' told ye aboot all the mess in Ireland, now?"

No, his aunt had most certainly not told him anything 'aboot' the mess in Ireland. Given the fact that she had been dead for most of the summer, she hadn't told him much of anything, but obviously this little creature didn't know that. Harry cast his mind back, knowing that Doors spent her summers in Ireland but little else, when suddenly it seized upon something that could only be counted as odd.

_"I wonder, will she want to come back?" Lupin murmured._

Sirius sighed once more, but this time Harry could sense a smile along with it. "Want to? Remus, what with all that's been going on in Ireland, what with all that will_ be going on soon, it's a wonder she hasn't found a way back on her own before now."_

__

Clearly, Ireland must be where he was now, and Harry had a nasty suspicion that he was about to find out just what madness was going on here, whether he wanted to or not.

He was right enough about that. The little creature regarded him keenly for a moment, before cracking into a grin that would have made both Weasley twins run away yipping in fear.

"Come on, lad," he said, taking Harry's finger in his little hand. "Let me show you somethin'."

He pulled Harry over to a small door in the tumbled wall, shoved it open, and grinned even more wickedly. And Harry, looking out at what lay beyond it, could only stare, his jaw dropping like a stone.

Voldemort was in BIG trouble.

A/N #2: Yeah, I know that's an evil place to leave you, but the next chapter's not far behind, and I think you'll all live until then. My parts are going to start getting a lot shorter, but there'll also be a lot less time in between posts--the one good thing about this whole chapter system is I don't have to put up such monster installments. Please don't flame me; I promise, this IS going somewhere. 

SpamWarrior

P.S. Slight question: I have a rather massive original work that I've actually sent to a publisher, but which I was thinking of posting on FF.N for a while anyway, and my query is, would any of you read it? It's certainly a bit different from my other work (it actually has a _plot_, for one thing), but Lizyrd's read it and I think enjoyed it, so if anybody wants me to, I just might stick it up for a while. ^_^


	5. Part Five (subtitled: Gypsies, Tramps, a...

A/N: Shorter bit this time, but I wanted to hold onto it until I'd gotten at least partway done with the chapter after it, just to make sure all was as it should be. The confusion mounts in this segment, but a lot of this junk will be explained in the next part, which I'm hoping to get out by Saturday. Yes, the title is from a Cher song; so shoot me. ^_^ Anyhoozle...er...read on, I suppose. 

Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves

Breath clouding his vision in a frosty blur, Harry gaped at the spectacle before him. 

Dull grey light washed over rolling Irish meadows, stiff with frost and still faintly green despite the frozen winter. And covering these meadows, stretching from horizon to horizon in every direction, was the strangest, loveliest, and most bizarre assemblage of people Harry had ever seen.

Milling through the flickering orange light of a thousand winking campfires was what had to be the largest assortment of magical creatures on the face of the planet. Only a few of them had Harry ever seen before, and there were several that he wasn't willing to even hazard a guess at. Banshees, dryads, swamp sprites, imps, Cornish pixies, poltergeists, unicorns, phoenixes, and what looked suspiciously like a gaggle of tipsy naiads were just a few of the creatures all wandering in seemingly aimless paths, babbling excitedly in their many strange tongues and using extremely colorful sign language when words failed.

A number of humans were dotted throughout this melee, all dark-skinned and black-haired and dressed in brilliant colors. They alone seemed to be moving with some sort of purpose, calling to one another in a language that sounded vaguely familiar.

"Gypsies," Harry muttered to himself, shivering. He had no idea why all these people would be gathered on a frozen Irish field in the middle of a gloomy afternoon, and at the moment he didn't care--he had a sudden, terrible feeling that he was needed back at the castle, and he had no idea how to get there.

"Aye, lad, there'll be time enough for that later," said Conn, apparently reading his thoughts. "Sure, they'll hang on fer a spell wi'out ye. It's to Hogwarts this crew'll be headin', if ever they manage t'get their heads on straight."

Harry stared at him. He'd had a nasty suspicion that some sort of complication was going to pop up, but this was just too much.

"H-have you all gone mad?!" he croaked, shaking his head and glancing out at the tumultuous throng. Conn looked at him quizzically. "VOLDEMORT'S up there, don't you understand? He's up at Hogwarts with a whole army of zombies and God knows what else besides, and I don't reckon even _Dumbledore_ would stand a chance against them, let alone a load of Muggles!" He shook his head again, wishing he could just give up on the whole thing.

The leprechaun was still surveying him keenly. "Lad, ye really _don't_ know what ye're a-talkin' aboot, do ye?" He chucked at Harry's blank stare. "Faith, young Potter, we've known a' that fer sight longer'n you have!"

Harry stopped short. "What?" he said, now fully floored. "But, _how_?"

Conn chuckled darkly. "Sure, lad, ye're not the only one who's been dabblin' in the work o' Silversleeves. Somebody was playin' wit' it fer months, an' taking no trouble t'hide it, either. As fer the Old Scratch showin' up at Hogwarts--well, where else'd he go?"

Harry gaped at him, his brain working furiously. He didn't know how on earth Lockhart could ever, in a million years, pull off something as complicated as Silversleeves' procedure for bringing back the dead, but it was just his luck that the blockhead would finally do something right--and then a very nasty thought struck him.

Lupin had said the Silversleeves spell was illegal for a very good reason; that, once you had figured out the spell, bringing back the dead was easy as anything, but bringing back the _right_ dead was nearly impossible. Surely Lockhart wouldn't know this, which meant that in all likelihood there was some other...thing...sitting inside Voldemort's hideously reanimated corpse. It could be anybody from Grindelwald to that Viking lunatic with the unpronounceable name who blew up half of Stonehenge in the 800's, _and whoever it was, they would have the full power of Lord Voldemort at their command._

"Crikey," he muttered, sudden despair washing over him--Voldemort was bad enough in all conscience, but some even worse thing with all of Voldemort's power would be ten million times worse.

He turned to Conn, having it in mind to spill his guts before giving up completely, but found the leprechaun deeply absorbed in a large square of parchment, his lips moving as he read. A huge tawny owl--nearly as big as Conn himself--sat waiting on a boulder nearby.

The leprechaun's face cracked into an extremely evil grin, and he let out an earsplitting whistle that rang out over all the din of the field.

"Creatures and Gypsies!" he cried, his voice astonishingly louder than his size would seem to permit. The entire assemblage looked up at him, a universal expression of impious hope on their faces.

Conn's grin became, if possible, even eviler. He paused for an effective moment, and then,

"We have been Called," he said, sweeping a stately bow.

For a moment there was utter silence, which was broken by a singular loud whoop that sounded through the gloom like a fire siren, followed by the fearful murmuring babble of a crowd possessed. As if some invisible cord had snapped, the aimless wandering melded into swift, decisive military action in the merest fraction of a second.

Harry stared (something he was doing quite a lot of lately.) He had absolutely no idea what being Called meant, but obviously everybody else did. The speed with which they organized themselves was staggering; within two minutes, the fires were doused and covered, and every sign of the vast press's presence was packed up and gone.

"Y'see there, lad," said Conn, crossing his arms and taking a puff at his pipe. "I reckon we'll stand a chance. Ye'd best be gettin' on home now; it'd give 'em a right shock if we arrived before ye." And before Harry could say that he had absolutely no idea how to do that, leprechaun, host, and caravan vanished, leaving him quite alone on the gloomy heath.

"Great," he muttered dejectedly, shivering in the chill, dark wind. He flopped heavily onto a boulder, only to leap up again a moment later at the outraged screech that split the sudden silence like nails on a blackboard. He whirled around, tumbling onto the crunchy grass, and found that he wasn't completely alone after all--the tawny owl sat on the boulder as well, looking ruffled and distinctly disgruntled at having been sat on. Its round golden eyes flashed unpleasantly.

"Er, sorry," Harry said, wondering if things could possibly get any worse.

The owl let out a low hoot, flapping into the air and coming straight for Harry's head. He ducked, hoping it wasn't about to tear his eyes out, but it sailed over him and landed in the grass beyond, still hooting softly.

Harry turned, and found the bird pecking at a cream-colored square of paper. Conn must have dropped his letter, whatever it was, in his haste to make tracks for Hogwarts, and the owl was now fairly accosting it.

Feeling vaguely that he might as well read it, Harry worried it from the bird's grasp and unfolded it. Inside, he was somehow not startled to find Doors's strong, wandering script, scratching a hasty note.

Everyone, 

The jig is up--grab the booty and run for the hills. Something's come up, and you're all needed a bit sooner than expected. Don't ask for now--you probably wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just be on your guard when you get near the castle; things aren't pleasant up here, and I'd hate for anything to happen to you lot on my account. Trust me, this is going to be FUN, and should well cover any debts I might have left over the summer.

Yours in very great haste,

Lorna Doors

P.S. Harry, I sincerely hope you're reading this--if Conn's got it when he shows up, I'll eat him. As soon as you've finished this letter, fold it up, stick it in your pocket, and then click your heels together three time and say "Death to Moldywarts." That ought to get you back here, but if not--well, find a broom, you're in for a long flight home.

Lorna

By now Harry was so bewildered that he scarcely registered anything the slightly soggy epistle said. Quite apart from the fact that this whole host had apparently been on its way before things went to hell, it appeared that whatever they knew about Lockhart and the Silversleeves potion, they hadn't bothered sharing that information with his aunt. As for the bit about debts--how could Doors have accumulated any debts over the summer? She'd been _dead_, for crying out loud....

Harry shook his head, not wanting to fathom the unfathomable workings of Doors's mind. He reread her postscript, feeling that if he tried it and it failed (something he didn't doubt, knowing his luck today), at least he'd only look like an idiot in front of the owl.

"Well, here goes," he said to the bird, folding up the letter. Squinting his eyes shut, he did as Doors had instructed, feeling that it would be just his luck to land smack on Malfoy when he got back.

The moment he'd finished his last 'Death to Moldywarts', he felt a sudden jerking behind his navel as though he'd just grabbed a Portkey. The world around him dissolved into the swirl of melded rainbow he had come to associate with the Neverstone. For a moment he felt he was going to be sick, as his perception of up and down vanished and he tumbled head over feet into the brilliant abyss.

He plunged through something solid, landing with a rather loud expletive on a table, which promptly collapsed under the force of the impact. Wincing, he scarcely had time to rub his head before Ron and Hermione were all over him like a cheap suit, brushing off his robes and gibbering unintelligably. 

Harry felt to make sure the Neverstone was still safe, then did his best to calm his two incoherent cohorts. 

"You guys," he said fervently, wiping his forehead on his sleeve and stuffing the Neverstone back in his pocket. "DON'T ASK. Trust me, you'll find out sooner than you want to." And without further explanation (but with an audible groan) he hauled himself from the collapsed table and staggered back down to the Great Hall.

The scene he found inside wasn't much different than it had been when he left--the Dursleys and Lockhart had been subdued, but the general air of panic hadn't been alleviated one whit by Lockhart's 'revelation.' 

His eyes quickly found the Marauders, who were standing off to the side of the room, deep in whispered conversation and generally ignored by the rest of the press. He also caught sight of Malfoy, who seemed to be utterly ignoring his father and mother (both of whom were shooting withering glares at any and all offending Lockharts) and searching urgently for something. He felt a slight pang of unease as he realized that Dudley was doing exactly the same thing, and glanced worriedly at Hermione.

However, he definitely had more pressing matters on his mind, and so Harry, with Ron and Hermione in tow, hurried across the carpet to where the Marauders stood huddled. He noticed with passing amusement the dark bruise already forming on Sirius's cheek--apparently Mr. Chang hadn't been overly pleased by his efforts to 'comfort' Mrs. Chang.

The three of them looked up as Harry approached, all of them appearing expectant. Harry, clutching a stitch at his side, tried not to collapse.

"Oh, you guys," he gasped, leaning against wall. "You guys, we are in BIG trouble."

Lupin, looking alarmed, caught him by the shoulders to keep him from keeling over. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Did you use the Neverstone?"

"Oh, I used it all right," said Harry, still panting. "And what I saw is going to make things eight million times worse. This whole horde of magical creatures left Ireland bound for Hogwarts--they think they're going to fight Voldemort, only I'm not sure it even _is _Voldemort, if what you said was true about the whole Silversleeves thing, and if Lockhart screwed things up as bad as I think he did, we're in a way deeper dung pile than we thought we were. And we've only got about two hours before everything gets even worse." He leaned against the wall again, exhausted, and left the adults to deal with that as they would.

Ron and Hermione were goggling at him--they'd been scared enough when he just up and disappeared out of Trelawney's room, and this news certainly wasn't comforting. Neither wanted to think about what was out there if not Voldemort, and they both looked helplessly to the Marauders. 

Lupin and Sirius glanced at one another, and to Harry's surprise neither of them seemed surprised, but Doors's eyes flicked to the ceiling.

"Uh, Harry, honey, I think you made a _slight_ miscalculation in that horde's ETA," she said, her voice unmistakably amused.

Harry's gaze followed his aunt's unwillingly, and what he saw was almost more than he could handle. 

High above the enchanted ceiling, opening smack in the middle of the bruise-black sky, was an extremely familiar-looking swirling rainbow portal. It had to stretch at least forty feet across and seventy in the air, breaking the torrent of blackness into a confused, tumbling chaos, and out of it were pouring what had to be hundreds upon thousands of flying magical creatures--pegusi, Cornish pixies, fairies, banshees, weird little creatures riding on what looked suspiciously like gigantic chickens, and a lot more Harry hadn't seen on the Irish moors. But it wasn't at these that he gaped.

Soaring amid this bizarre host were a load of some of the weirdest things Harry had yet seen, though their strangeness stemmed largely from their outlandish incongruity--sprinkling the airborne melee like a flock of demented birds were at least ninety winged, extremely colorful Winnebagos, weaving in and out of the throng as though it were no more than highway traffic, and Harry realized with a mental slap that these must be what the Gypsies were riding in.

By now the rest of the Hall had noticed this bizarre aerial phenomena, and the panic that had started to quiet down flared out again in full force. Millicent Bulstrode, who had been clinging to Crabbe ever since this whole mess began, let out an astonishingly high squeal and fainted dead away, and even Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy left off their whispering to gawk in unflattering disbelief. Aunt Petunia's death grip on Snape slackened a bit as her eyes widened, but Snape himself seemed to be struck dumb with horror.

The entire assembly stared for a moment, the wreckage of the arbor still smoking and sizzling and the carpet soaked and soggy, until the silence grew so uncomfortably stifling that it just had to be broken. And broken it was, by the thick Irish brogue of Mrs. Finnigan.

"Faith, Lorna, ye little shite, what're ye doin' bringin' that lot in tae t'is mess?" 

The throng turned on Doors in unison, gazing at her with a rapt, almost nauseating expectancy.

"Er," she said eloquently.

Sirius and Lupin alone looked nonplussed--clearly they had known just what their small compatriot was up to, and they stood on either side of her now, though Harry had a feeling it was more to see how she was planning on getting herself out of this one than for moral support. Sirius in particular was looking wickedly gleeful, and Doors planted a none-too-accidental stomp on his foot before speaking again.

"Thanks a lot, Shivon," she said, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes back to the heavens. "Look, we needed help, didn't we? I'm sure you remember just how lethal those damn things can be, and....well....I figured we could use some...reinforcements."

Her tone was light, and her voice did its work well on the crowd, but Harry noticed she was visibly pale. The flood above them was continuing unabated, and he knew that any minute now there would be some kind of retaliation from the zombies, which likely wasn't going to help the situation any. 

__

CRASH 

"Boy, that was quick," he muttered, pitching forward onto his hands and knees. The entire Hall shook, raining bits of dust and mortar. Many people shrieked, what little confidence they had once again shattered, but the Marauders, still looking not at all surprised, bolted into the entrance hall as quick as ever they could (which wasn't very, given the crowd they had to fight through.) Harry, too exhausted to follow, collapsed onto the carpet and waited to see what fresh hell those three would cook up next.

By the sound of things, it was going to be a doozy--a furious scuffle could be heard through the open doors, accompanied by much cursing and slamming. Nobody but Harry, Ron, and Hermione seemed to have taken any notice of the trio's departure, but the three of them waited, tense with fear, to see what was going on out there.

__

CRASH

There came a second bone-jarring thud, echoing through the Hall and sending the crowds skittering. Aunt Petunia wailed something about horrible monsters, but for some reason the pounding didn't frighten Harry. He listened for a moment, head coked to one side, to the Marauders cursing and struggling in the entrance hall, and suddenly he understood--Voldemort's zombies weren't retaliating at all.

Something very big was outside, knocking to get in.

Doors's debt was about to be settled after all.

A/N: Bit less of a cliffhanger than last time, though I'm still being a little mean--whatever, it's my lame attempt at keeping people interested in this opus until I can drag it to the climax. Just a little side note: this damned thing is 152 pages long, and I've still got five more chapters. (Oi.)

SpamWarrior


	6. Part Six (subtitled: The Truth, Some of ...

A/N: Mwahahahaheeheeee......yes, this would obviously be part six, coming as it does after part five. Do enjoy, and please try not to torch me with butane--I know I'm mean and nasty and all that rot, but if you kill me you'll never know how this ends. ::evil grin::

The Truth (Some of It): Silversleeves

Harry was feeling incredibly dazed. Just how the horde had fought their way through the army of zombies, he didn't know, but the flood of motley creatures pouring into the already packed Hall was making him dizzy. The guests, frightened and confused, shrank back against the far wall, but it quickly became apparent that the throng, whatever it was, wasn't harmful. The cause of the knocking, an incredibly well-dressed giantess whose head fairly scraped the ceiling, was doing her best to stay out of the way and not stomp on everyone at the back of the Hall.

Ron pulled Harry to his feet, dragging he and Hermione out of the throng's path. The three perched on one of the long tables, watching with incredulity as the entire army crowded themselves inside in less than five minutes. The shutters and doors were rattling harder than ever, but as Dumbledore still seemed confident in the school's defenses, Harry chose not to worry about that for the moment. He watched the Headmaster, whose expression had grown far less grave since the arrival of the mass, and wondered with an almost surreal calm what on earth could possibly happen now. He half felt as though he were in a dream, and would wake up at any moment to find his face stuck to his Transfiguration book and Professor McGonagall glaring at him fit to kill.

Awaken he did not, and presently he came to realize that the Hall had quieted, and Dumbledore was speaking.

"Well, I won't pretend this entire situation isn't something of a shock (to say the very least), and I'm certain I'm not alone in wondering just what exactly is going on here. I therefore propose that we sit down and work out the answer to that very question, before proceeding with any counteraction on those outside."

This seemed reasonable enough to Harry (who was by now so confused that Hermione's Arithmancy homework sounded like a walk in the park), but many of the parents let out outraged cries.

"What are you talking about, man?" thundered Pansy Parkinson's father. "That mob'll be in here any minute now, we can't be caught standing around yarking like a load of housewives." His arms were crossed and he was glaring, but any further outbursts were silenced by an extremely well-aimed Petrificus charm shot his way by Mrs. Finnigan.

Harry swore he saw a spark of amusement rise momentarily in Dumbledore's blue eyes. "Have a little more faith in your school's defenses, Conrad. This castle was built during the time of some of the most terrible wizarding wars imaginable; I would certainly hope it could withstand a half hour's worth of assault."

The parents settled back, apparently mollified, and Dumbledore continued serenely.

"Now, since I have absolutely no idea as to the nature or purpose of our unexpected guests, I shall turn the floor over to those who I feel most likely to hold that information. Lorna, Remus, Sirius, if you will." He swept a slight bow, and the Marauders, standing near the doors, exchanged nervous glances.

"Er, well," said Doors, after being rather conspicuously elbowed by Sirius, "It's sort of a long story, but I'll try and keep it short." She was looking paler than ever, Harry noticed, but her eyes were glowing even brighter and greener than usual. She sighed, ran a hand through her limp bangs, and said,

"All right. Most of you know that I was, well, dead over the summer. You've probably wondered why I'm not now, but before I go into that I have to tell you all something else that you probably didn't know, and it'll explain a lot about this whole mess in here." She swept a hand at the medley of magical creatures, all of whom rolled their eyes.

"See, there's this long-standing ritual among magical non-humans to hold a massive party every Midsummer Eve, and basically make fun of all you humans. It's held by a different person in a different place every year, and this year it was supposed to be my turn. Obviously I couldn't take that turn, seeing as I was pushing up daisies in the cemetery out back of St. Mungo's, but as soon as all this lot heard I'd come back, they started plotting a way for me to pay my debt and hold a party anyway."

Doors paused, looking as guilty as it was possible for her to look. Sirius was pointedly looking elsewhere, but Lupin gave her a nudge. 

"Er...Well, that's where we sort of cooked up something mean," she went on, slight laughter in her voice despite her self-reproach. "See, I figured that since most of us love disasters and this wedding was likely to be the biggest one of the century--"

The entire Lockhart clan "humphed" in unison.

"--that it would more than pay my debt to invite them here and let them do what they would. They were waiting to crash this party long before old Moldywarts and his army of goose-stepping mummies showed up, and when he did I called them here anyway, figuring that at least they could take out a couple of those maggot-eaters on the way in."

There came a snort, and a tall, vividly dressed Gypsy woman fought her way to the front of the crowd. Oddly, her black eyes were sparkling merrily, and she laughed before she spoke.

"Lorna, they really didn't tell you, did they?" she asked, shooting a glare at a small gaggle of nearby leprechauns. Doors looked at her curiously.

"Lorna, we knew someone other than your friends had been dabbling in the sorcery of the one you call Silversleeves, and we knew at once when he succeeded in resurrecting your Dark Lord. Those _dili_ over there were supposed to tell you what we'd seen, but obviously that never happened." 

Doors stared at the woman. "You people know about this?" she said, rounding furiously on the leprechauns, who backed away. "Why didn't you _tell_ us?" she demanded, disbelief etched across her face.

The leprechauns exchanged glances. "Well, we don't take after you for nothing," the one Harry knew as Conn said sheepishly.

Doors smacked her forehead and groaned. "Impaled on my own sword," she muttered. "You little idiots, you of all people ought to know how serious something like that is!" She was looking at the small creatures with an unusual gravity in her gaze, and Harry felt his stomach drop as his early dreadful suspicions were confirmed. "Don't you know how the Silversleeves potion works? That may look like Voldemort out there, but if it really is I'll eat my corsage."

The leprechauns (and everyone else) were looking extremely nervous by now, as Doors unconsciously infused her own worry into her voice and spread it like a blanket over the Hall. She glanced at Lupin, who sighed.

"The Silversleeves potion does two things," he said wearily, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. "Done correctly, it will work as it did on Lorna, and return the subject as they were just prior to their death."

Harry saw Snape stiffen out of the corner of his eye. Lupin swallowed and continued.

"The other way it may be used--the far easier way--is to reanimate the corpse with whatever spirit is handy. Seeing as Sirius and I were the first people to use the spells correctly in over two thousand years, I'm assuming that Gilderoy did not. Which means we have no idea what's _really_ out there."

Silence fell, as the press mulled this over in their minds. Several of them--mostly the parents of Slytherins--clearly knew a thing or two about this Silversleeves business, and the color drained from all their faces as the full implications of Lupin's words dawned on them.

"The _tachiben chachni_," whispered Lucius Malfoy. He had been looking wickedly happy up to this point, but at Lupin's explanation he went whither than Nearly Headless Nick. Narcissa looked as though she were about to faint.

"The _what_?" demanded McGonagall. She'd somehow managed to change back into her natural habiliments, and was far more able to snap at people now that she no longer looked like an overgrown powderpuff. 

Lupin sighed, and the crowd flinched as a specially hard thump sounded on the great front doors. The giantess gave out a growl and flexed her massive fingers.

"It's rather complicated," he said, smiling somewhat twistedly. "As Lucius said, it's the law of _tachiben chachni--_you'd have to ask Lorna what it meant; it's some sort of Romani phrase.You see, reanimating a corpse doesn't just create an evil spirit free-for-all--deciding which spirit gets the body is by no means a first-come, first-served process. Some spirits are far more powerful than others, and should you join a strong one with a formerly powerful body.....well, you'll have a serious problem on your hands."

"Well, then...wouldn't that mean Voldemort would just get his old body back?" Ginny asked timidly, wringing her expensive purple robes in her hands. "I mean...he was the most powerful Dark wizard and everything...." She trailed off.

"Ginny," Doors said softly. "We're talking spirits here, spirits of every discontented witch or wizard who, for whatever reason, couldn't make it as ghosts. And if Voldemort's body were open to the most powerful of these, it would likely be someone a bit....older..."

Realization dawned on Ginny's face, and she let out a faint squeak before tottering backward and being caught by her mother. The rest of the Hall, not far behind her, gave a universal shudder. Nobody wanted to say it, as though speaking the name aloud would make it so, but after several moments of extremely uncomfortable silence Sirius ventured a whisper.

"Salazar Slytherin," he murmured, his voice quiet and yet almost deafening. The silence closed around it once more like a shroud, the roaring and pounding outside somehow muted. Harry thought dimly that Voldemort--or whoever he was--had to be off planning something really horrible for them all, or he'd surely have been in there by now.

"Not just Slytherin, either," said Doors. "From the looks of things he's been playing Silversleeves as well, which means it's likely that Voldemort and Grindelwald and maybe Ashren de an Dachaidh himself are out there somewhere, planning ways to eat us all."

And with that, the full, horrible magnitude of their plight descended on Harry like a ton of lead.

"So what do we do about it?" he asked.

The entire crowd turned to stare at him. "What do you mean, 'What do we do about it'?" snarled Lucius Malfoy after a moment, his arm around his wife's shoulders. "We're all going to die, that's what! Do you have any _idea_ what Slytherin did to those who opposed him?"

"Well, honestly," said Harry, affronted, and also highly uncomfortable being stared at by so many people. "We've got to do _something_, haven't we? I mean, we're not going to just sit around here and wait for the zombies to come eat us."

"Oh?" Lucius's expression was so frighteningly like his son's used to be that Harry shivered. "And just what are you planning to do, Potter?" he asked, his lip curling in typical Malfoy fashion. "You've saved the world more often than anyone else in this room, and I'm sure we'd all like to hear your brilliant plan for outwitting that lot outside."

If the crowd had been staring hard at Harry before, it was nothing to the gaze they lavished on him now--one could tell that Lucius's words rang truer than most would like to admit, and deep inside every witch and wizard present felt that if Harry Potter, their symbolic talisman against the forces of Darkness, failed, no one would ever succeed.

"Bugger," Harry said with feeling, wishing desperately for something, anything to distract the crowd's attention. We shall now take this time to remind the audience of the old adage 'Be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.' For no sooner had he thought this than a shout cut through the silence, effectively shattering the throng's reverie and much else besides.

"Father, you leave him alone!"

Draco Malfoy was struggling through the sea of people, his pale face flushed, grey eyes alight with an almost manic gleam. Harry groaned inwardly, knowing nothing Malfoy could say was going to improve his position, but even he had to wince at what issued next from the Slytherin's mouth.

"Potter's friends with my true love, and that makes him...well...not my enemy!" He glanced at Hermione, who paled to the hue of old oatmeal, and tottered so violently it looked as though she were about to faint.

"Oh, GAWD," muttered Harry.

Let us draw a curtain of charity over the rest of the scene. Please.

****

In the midst of the chaos that followed, Harry somehow found himself sitting concealed behind a long table with the Marauders and, for some strange reason, Crookshanks. All three of them looked very torn between anxiety and amusement, though Sirius was obviously leaning far more toward the latter. Harry regarded them all in a daze.

"Harry, I realize you've got to be incredibly confused," said Doors, looking unusually grave and still rather pale.

"Right on, Agatha Christie," he muttered, wiping his forehead.

It was a mark of just how worried Doors was that she didn't smack him one, and this fact boded not at all well with Harry. The only time he'd ever seen his aunt worried was right before she'd gone and gotten herself killed, and this situation was immeasurably worse than that had been. He looked at her steadily, feeling that meeting her eyes was like trying to stare down a hippogriff. 

Doors glanced at Lupin. "You think we'd better tell him?" she asked, an odd tone in her voice.

"What, you mean all of it?" said Lupin, who was looking very grave indeed. Doors nodded. She and Lupin looked at one another for a long moment, as though reaching some silent agreement.

Doors crossed her legs, resting her elbows on her knees and picking absently at her hem. "Harry, you know how I said when the time was right you'd know why it was I was allowed to come back?" she said, not looking at him.

Harry nodded, a strange fluttering in the pit of his stomach, as though he were standing on the edge of some great precipice and in grave danger of falling over.

His aunt raised her eyes to his, first glancing at Lupin, who shot a look at Sirius. She sighed.

"I guess you've figured out by now that I'm not totally human--I mean, look at me, I've got pointed ears, for God's sake. But what I am.....well...." 

She pointed at his pocket, where the Neverstone now glowed brightly through the fabric. Startled, Harry pulled it out and set it on the floor in front of him.

"You asked me once how I got hold of that thing," Doors said, the light reflecting off her slanted eyes. "It's true that on this earth Neverstones are extremely rare, and I seriously doubt even I could lay hold of one if I went looking. Which is why I got this one directly from the manufacturers."

Harry dragged his eyes from the light-swirled orb and stared at her. "W-_What_?" he demanded, not sure he had heard her right. "Are you telling me that how you got hold of this thing has something to do with why you could come back?" It made sense--as much as anything _could_ make sense right now--but Harry wasn't taking anything for granted.

"It does indeed," said Doors, her eyes flashing momentarily with something like their normal glee. "I didn't go into much detail with you about just what sort of creatures inhabit Naevaerland, and there's no time now, but suffice it to say that the Guardians of the Gate of Heaven are--er--_different_. They're called Sidhe, and they're immortal child-spirits whose sole function is to watch over Naevaerland and control what goes in or out. It's a damn good thing they're not charged with more, for they live to have fun, and are so irresponsible it's a wonder they manage to do what little they're appointed." There was a definite laughter in her voice now, and Harry got the feeling Doors was far more fond of these creatures than she wanted to let on.

"So, what about them?" he prompted, glancing nervously at the boiling ceiling.

Doors sighed, obviously searching for the right words. "Harry, you know how magic is sort of a tricky, unplottable thing--nobody knows just what makes a wizard a wizard instead of a Muggle, or why a line of Muggles will suddenly produce a magical child." 

Harry nodded.

"Well, what hardly anybody knows is that there is a sort of sub-species within the magical community, who, for some strange reason, have inherited something that makes them.....not human. I told you about it once, when you asked what chooses a person to fight the Phantoms, and now I'll tell you exactly why."

She stopped, surveying Harry keenly, and Harry got the distinct impression she was sizing him up to see how he was taking all this. Apparently she was satisfied, for she continued quietly.

"Sidhe never grow up, but that doesn't mean they don't find the means to multiply--they scatter a bit of themselves into every generation of magical babies born, completely at random, leaving some of them....well....like me. Genetically we ought to be fully human, but because of some small alteration to our souls, we're not. And as the Sidhe are guardians of their world, so we must be to this one. Which is why we fight the Phantoms."

Harry exhaled noisily, not sure how to handle this. Finding out his aunt wasn't exactly a human being would be a bit to deal with under normal circumstances, and in the middle of this.....well.....But he had to try.

"And this has what to do with why you're not dead?" he asked, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He could feel his eyes were round as dinner plates, and he knew that most of the color had to have leeched out of his face.

Doors and Lupin exchanged brief glances. "That's a bit more complicated, and I'll try to keep it brief," said Doors. "You see, when most people--like your parents--die, they go to either Heaven, hell, purgatory, or limbo. It's only natural; they came from Heaven originally, and so they're going to go back to it or one of its...offices. But for people like me, people who have the souls of Sidhe--we've never been to Heaven, and we can never go there, not for long. When we die we return to the world we came from, the world of Naevaerland, and while passage through the Gate is final, passage _onto_ it isn't. You understand what I'm saying?"

Harry's face said quite clearly that he was woefully lost, but he knew he'd better take a stab at it. "So....you're saying that death for humans is pretty final, but death for...people like you...isn't?" he ventured timidly.

Doors grinned, clearly relieved. "Got it in one," she said. "Remus here knew--at least somewhat--what I was, and that bringing me back, while hard, could be done. And I'm right glad he did it, too," she added, elbowing Lupin in the ribs. "I wouldn't want to miss this for anything."

Harry snorted, feeling some of the numbness leave him. "Which brings us back to the whole point," he said, ducking as a chair went flying over the table and smashed on the wall beyond. He could hear Malfoy and his father having a terrific row somewhere in the Hall, punctuated by furious grunts from Dudley, and certainly not being helped any by Uncle Vernon's furious bellows. Harry reflected that poor Hermione was going to need a lifetime of therapy after this one. "What do we do about that mob out there?"

To his great surprise, Doors grinned even wider. "Oh, we'll manage," she said, her voice so wickedly merry Harry thought it ought to be outlawed. "With a little help from some little friends." She reached behind her and set something on the floor beside the still-glowing Neverstone--a very small creature, with shocking green hair and bright green eyes, of the sort that Harry had seen riding the enormous chickens through the tangle of their new....reinforcements. The creature looked up at him, grinned, took a swig off a small bottle, and let out an astonishingly loud belch.

"What the _hell _is that thing?" he asked incredulously, as the thing sat down with a cheerful flop and proceeded to down the rest of its drink.

Doors snickered. "This, my dear nephew, is a Failte," she said, her eyes glowing with unholy glee. "And he and all his kind are going to teach that load of swots out there just why you don't take on the forces of Naevaerland.

"Somehow I knew that was coming," said Harry. He had no chance to say anything more, however, for at that moment about five things happened--Hermione, paler than death and blindly swinging a candlestick, came sailing over the table and landed with a crunch, Malfoy and Dudley (who were pummeling the living tar out of one another) at her heels, the giantess let out a shriek, and, with an almighty crash that shook Hogwarts from dungeon to tower, the great front doors burst inward in a rain of splinters that blasted even into the Great Hall.

Hogwarts had company. 

Muahahahaha........::evil author laughter:: I know, I'm just being awful about these cliffhangers, but they're so much fun for me. I promise, you will see more of Dudley and Malfoy (and a very ill Hermione) in the next part, as well as a load of Failte in action. ::looks wickedly delighted at the thought of writing one of her much-loved but little-used battle scenes:: I also caution you that the next portion of this opus is going to take the meaning of the word 'chaos' to new and--er--glorious heights. ^_^


	7. Part Seven (subtitled: War, Failte Style...

A/N: Okay, there _is _a reason this part has taken so long--I was going to put it, eight, and nine up at one go and spare you all rather nasty cliffhanger, but since chapter nine is being a bastard and is taking me forever to write, I figured I'd through everybody a bone and then listen as you all yell at me for yet another obnoxious cliffhanger. It _is_ obnoxious, but I figured you'd all rather have this part now than a really big chunk two weeks from now. ^_^

War, Failte Style

Harry's first reaction was to throw himself under the table and hide, but with a roar like a drunken Viking, the dolled-up giantess picked up it and every other table in the Hall and piled them in a haphazard heap in the gaping doorway beyond. Several moments later nearly every statue in the entrance hall had joined them, leaving several badly shocked zombies trapped in the castle and a good deal more hammering on the barrier from outside. Any idiot could see that the barricade wasn't going to hold for long, but hopefully it would give them enough time to think up something.

While the giantess proceeded to render the zombies into chutney, Hermione and Ron stumbled over and pulled Harry to his feet. Hermione still looked like she was about to be ill, but the threat that loomed just outside seemed to be bringing her back to her senses a bit.

"Oh, what're we going to do now?" she moaned, staring out into the entrance hall at the rumbling and shifting barrier.

"You want my advice?" asked Doors, still sounding dryly amused. The three looked at her. "Run like hell."

Harry shrugged. "If you say so," he said, and without further ado he dragged Ron and Hermione as fast as they could go out the far doors and through the corridors. The Neverstone, which he'd had the sense to grab before diving under the table, sat in his left pocket with a comforting weight as he pelted along, quite conscious of the crowd that had decided to follow him.

"Harry!" cried Hermione, wrenching her hand from his. "Are you crazy? We can't just _leave_ them back there!"

"Hermione, trust me," said Harry, turning on her with an almost savage light in his eyes. "I think those three can take care of themselves."

_And besides,_ he added in his head, _something tells me I don't want to be around when those little green bastards go on the warpath._

The three of them darted into an unused classroom, piled with dusty desks and cauldrons, the shutters rattling madly. Not even bothering to shut the door, Harry pulled the Neverstone from his pocket and sank to the floor with his back against the wall, peering intently at it.

"Harry, what are you doing?" demanded Hermione, shooting an uncomfortable glance at the shutters. She still looked as though she were in shock, and Harry had a nasty feeling she was going to snap out of it and take her anger out on both he and Ron sooner or later.

"Hang up a minute," he said, biting his tongue as he tried to work out some meaning from the swirling smoke inside the orb. "Don't ask me why, but I've got a....well, not a bad feeling, but definitely an idea that there's a lot more to those little green critters of Doors's than she was letting on about, and something tells me they're going to make things hell for our unwanted houseguests."

Both Ron and Hermione were staring at him in frank bewilderment, so he sighed and repeated what Doors had told him about the Failte and the Neverstone. He left out the bits about her own...abnormalities, thinking that it would be a bit much to be heaping on his friends' heads.

He was right on that count--by the time he'd finished, the two were gawking at him far more than he'd like as it was. 

"_Failte_?" said Hermione, looking horrified. "Oh, good God, Harry, we're all in a bit more trouble than you think. Don't you know what those things can _do_?"

"Forgive me for not having read half the library by now," he said, somewhat irritably. "You want to tell us?"

Hermione still looked as though someone had died. "Well, you know how all those things look really drunk? There's a very good reason for that. Failte drunk are relatively harmless--unless you hack them off--but if you ever get them sober, they'll make Slytherin look like a piker."

Harry snorted. "Come off it," he said. "You're telling me those little things are really a load of homicidal maniacs?"

Hermione nodded fervently. "You just wait," she said. "Wait till they run out of booze, and things'll really get....interesting."

"Great," muttered Harry. "That's all we need."

The trio was brought back to earth with an abrupt jolt--literally. Somewhere out in the Great Hall something very big had fallen over, eliciting many a screech from the various mothers fleeing up the corridors. Several ashen-faced parents came crashing through the door into their classroom, only to tear out again as they realized the only other exit was the window. Harry, giving up on the Neverstone, leaped to his feet and shoved it back into his pocket.

"That doesn't sound good," he said shakily, and quite unnecessarily. 

"Naw, really?" said Ron, running a trembling hand through his hair. "You think--you think we ought to go help them?" he said uncertainly, looking as though he'd rather just run away as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

"I don't know," said Harry, just as uncertainly. "They might not want us to--"

CRASH

The three leaped backwards as Doors and Sirius came tumbling into the room, both looking like they'd been on the losing end of a fight with a hippogriff.

"Well, I think we can safely say _that_ doesn't work," Doors muttered, dusting off her robes.

Lupin hopped into the door a moment later, looking ruffled but distinctly better than the other two.

"And whose brilliant idea was that?" he asked dryly, wiping something that smelled suspiciously like fertilizer from his robes.

"Hers," Sirius said at once, pointing at the top of Doors's head.

"Grrr," offered Doors. "Stalled them, didn't it? Anyhow, it doesn't have to hold them for long, just till the Failte regroup."

Hermione looked even more alarmed at that, but said nothing.

"You guys--what are you--" Harry started, but Doors waved him silent.

"Come on over here and watch, Harry," she said, beckoning him over to the window.

Harry approached it with some trepidation, Ron and Hermione at his heels. Even in this light he could see his aunt was looking paler than ever, and her eyes were strangely red around the rims--he didn't know how late she'd been up preparing the night before, but the strain was starting to show on her.

"You ready?" she asked, surveying the three keenly. Harry nodded numbly.

"Excellent." And so saying, she pulled back the shutters and showed them the world outside.

****

It was like nothing Harry had ever seen. He stood stock-still for a moment, seeing but not comprehending, and staring until it felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

Spread out across the vast whiteness of the Hogwarts grounds was the army of his nightmare, the undead host of the dream he'd had the night Marge had gone on her little nocturnal adventure. Stretched from horizon to horizon it stood, a writhing mass of squirming, maggot-eaten bodies clamoring stupidly for entrance into the castle. He could see at once why it had taken them so long to force their way in--their dead, cumbersome hands thudded weakly on the doors and shutters and walls, pounding futily against the might of Hogwarts.

But it wasn't that--well, not fully--that made him goggle so. For lined up on the battlements, in an almost solid mass, was an even odder sight than a horde of zombies. Carpeting every stone surface with a brilliant medley of feathers stood hundreds upon thousands of--

"Chickens?" said Ron, gawking.

Harry felt he had good reason to gape--his few glimpses of the Failte's war-steeds did them absolutely no justice. These chickens were about twice the size of housecats, decorated in pagan blazes of fur and yarn and rags. Their riders, with their shaggy green mops of hair and piercingly brilliant eyes, looked even more of a mess--every last one of them seemed to be dressed in odd scraps of tie-dye.

"Oi," said Harry, a sudden, mad, unstoppable laughter rising within him. "Those poor sods, they'll never know what hit them."

"And that, my dear Harry, is precisely the point," said Sirius, grinning rather wickedly.

"Which leaves only their masters to us," added Lupin, by way of a dampener.

Hermione, pale and fidgeting, spoke up. "Wh-where exactly are the....masters?" she asked tremulously..

The mirth leeched visibly from the faces of the three adults. "Relax, honey, they're not inside just yet," Doors said, her tone somber. "Ruby'll give em a run for their money--it's not exactly easy getting past a hacked-off giantess."

Hermione looked slightly relieved, but only slightly. "So....what are we going to do when they get in?"

Now it was Sirius who looked grave, his face grim and set. "We won't do anything," he said quietly. His eyes found Harry, who saw in their depths the dead, haunted, terrible dullness of Azkaban, a look that had all but vanished until now. "The lives of everyone within this castle rest in the hands of one of us. Or, rather, in the pocket."

Harry stared at him. Numbly his hand fell on the lump of the Neverstone, and in his godfather's haunted eyes he saw the truth, cold and terrible: If he didn't figure out how to use the Neverstone before the last defenses of Hogwarts were breached, no amount of Failte or warriors would save them. The consequences of holding the Neverstone was that he was quite literally carrying the fate of the world, and as the staggering, head-splitting implications of this descended on him, he opened his mouth and uttered the one and only thing he was capable of giving voice to:

"_Bugger._"

****

Harry didn't have long to brood on the unfairness of things, however. For, with a high, spine-tingling wail that made his hair stand on end, the 

Failte launched their assault.

Ron, who happened to be standing nearest the window, ventured a look out and promptly went very green. He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned away, but was mercifully spared from tossing his cookies by a small diversion in the form of Draco Malfoy, who burst into the room a moment alter and made them all jump about a foot. His silvery hair was tousled and there was a nasty-looking bruise already forming on his pale cheek. His eyes fell on Hermione, and an odd, unpleasantly sane grin crossed his face.

"There you are," he said, his voice making horrible contrast with the sickly-sweet tone he'd been using earlier--now it was cold and calculated, far worse than anything his father could come up with, and there was a very disturbing glint in his eyes. "I've been looking for you, Hermione. We need to talk."

Hermione took one look at him and gave out a frightened sort of squeak, her eyes wide. As Malfoy started to advance on her she darted behind Sirius, yelping something that sounded suspiciously like "Eeeep!" 

Malfoy circled around, trying to follow her, a lock of hair hanging in his face and giving him a particularly crazed look. "Come on, Granger, don't make this any harder than it has to be," he snapped, for a moment sounding so much like the old Malfoy that Harry almost heaved a sigh of relief. 

Hermione had thrown her arms around Sirius's waist, and was probably breaking his ribs as she used him as a human shield between her and Malfoy. Sirius, who was looking not at all comfortable with the situation, opened his mouth to try and reason with the half-cracked Slytherin, but he never got the chance--the door burst open once more, and in tumbled something that at first glance resembled a gigantic blob of sourdough in white brocade. 

A moment later a fat blonde head emerged, and, with one sausage-like finger pointed dramatically at Malfoy, Dudley took a deep breath and bellowed at the top of his voice.

"YOU SHTAY AWAY FROM HER!" he cried, the force of his bray somewhat compromised by a rather pronounced lisp, caused, no doubt, by the two teeth he was now very conspicuously missing.

For a moment the room just stared at him, shocked into silence by this extraordinary....interruption, and Hermione, who was looking very white by now, ventured a glance under Sirius's outstretched arm.

Harry hadn't thought it possible for anyone's eyes to get as big as Hermione's were now, but the sight of the pop-eyed, purple-faced, gap-toothed visage of Dudley Dursley proved to be too much for poor Hermione--she took one look at him, shrieked, and in an extremely ill-executed scramble for the window managed to tip forward off a broken desk and crack her head on the leg of another.

"Hermione!" 

Quicker than sight, Malfoy had darted over to the dazed girl, kneeling beside her and taking her hand in his.

"Hermione," Malfoy said, his voice switching to yet a new tone, one that made Harry stare--the only person he'd ever heard pull off a voice like that was Sirius. "Granger, are you all right?" His pale fingers ran through Hermione's hair, muttering something Harry didn't catch.

"You SHMACK!" Dudley trundled to his feet, making the entire room shake, and with floor-cracking footsteps he stomped over to Malfoy and Hermione.

"_Move_," he said to Malfoy, his face even more purple and his piggy eyes fixed on the semiconscious Hermione.

Harry saw Malfoy tense, and reflected that this really was the single worst thing that could possibly be happening right now.

"Why should I?" he asked, his voice so dangerous that it took an idiot like Dudley to miss it. As it was, the fat boy's face darkened to an ugly mauve, and he all but bellowed, "BECAUSE I SAID SO! **MOOOOOOOO**!"

This was just too much for poor Ron, who had been choking on his laughter for the last five minutes--he gave up and collapsed in a fit of howling glee to the floor, his face red and tears streaming from his eyes. Harry smacked his forehead, fighting a snort of his own, but Malfoy was staring at Dudley as though he'd just grown an extra head.

"Did....did you just...._moo?_" he asked, disbelief etched across his pale face.

Harry's suppressed snort forced its way out. "He always does that," he choked, sniggering uncontrollably. "Has ever since he was he was a tot. Makes Aunt Petunia think he's going to have a seizure or something." This only made Ron laugh the harder, gasping for breath and clutching his ribs on the floor.

Malfoy's silvery eyebrow arched. "You're _kidding_," he said, the lazy drawl in his scathing voice somewhat more pronounced than usual. One look at Dudley's face (now an extremely interesting crimson) said that Harry most certainly was not, and Malfoy let out what had to be the most derisive sort of snort imaginable. 

"What a manly way to handle the situation," he said, his mouth curling into a sneer. 

Dudley, who was probably too infuriated and embarrassed to register the finer points of the conversation, still managed to realize he was being mocked. His fat, sweaty face went an even uglier shade of crimson, and with a roar that made Uncle Vernon's look like the mewling of a kitten he launched himself straight at the pale-haired Slytherin.

"GAAA!" 

Malfoy, properly terrified at the prospect of being smashed into the wall by a gigantic hunk of lard in dress robes, leaped out of the way and crashed rather ungracefully into Sirius. Hermione, who was still sitting on the floor in a giggling daze, mustered just enough wits to give her wand a drunken flick and freeze the obese human cannon ball in midair. 

"Heeheehee, that's it," she said, before her head slumped and all her consciousness fled.

In all likelihood things would have gotten even more out of hand (if such a thing were even possible at this point), but, as is wont to happen when things start going down the drain, the situation very quickly went from bad to worse. Just as Malfoy made to leap to his feet and start pawing at Hermione there came a crash that seemed to rattle the very bones of Hogwarts, shivering the stone walls and making the floor buckle underneath their feet. Harry found himself tackled to the floor as both Doors and Lupin slammed into him, which turned out to be a very good thing--a moment later the entire window blasted inward, spraying shards of glass across the room with a shattering crash.

"SHUTTERS!" Sirius yelled, disentangling himself from Malfoy and hurling the heavy wooden shutters closed with all his strength. He was obviously having a hard time of it, but Harry found himself significantly less impressed by Sirius's show of strength when Lupin, who had a nasty little cut just above his eyebrow, got to his feet and stilled the violent rattling with one hand.

"Don't work so hard, Sirius, you'll strain yourself," he said, offering a weary smile.

Muttering something about superhuman werewolf strength, Sirius mopped his forehead on the sleeve of his robes and cast a glance at the mess that had once been a classroom. "Lorna, much as I _really_ hate to say this, we probably ought to go see just what's cooking out there, hadn't we?"

Doors wiped her hands on her robes and wrenched her hair free from its prison under a chair. "Sirius, I hate to agree with you, but you're probably right."

Sirius procured from somewhere a handy two-by-four to bar the windows with , and after Lupin had pried Malfoy off Hermione and conjured a stretcher for her (he opined that under the circumstances it was probably better to leave her as she was for a while), the odd little party started off through the hallways of Hogwarts.

Harry had to admit that this procession was even odder than the one he'd marched in during third year--instead of Snape drifting creepily ahead, the blobular form of the still-frozen Dudley blocked out most of the light, while the unconscious Hermione gave an occasional twitch on her stretcher and Malfoy followed guard after her with a truly alarming glint in his eyes. Sirius had to fend off the unwanted attentions of more than one passing, panic-stricken female, while Ron wiped blood off a cut on his chin and did his best not to look completely out of it. The small form of Doors stumbled over the hem of her robes just ahead of him, frizzy tendrils of hair escaping from her hastily-tied horse's tail and waving in the drafts like some weird sea creature. He could hear Lupin's footfalls behind him, last of all, sounding as calm and unruffled as always, but the only feelings Harry could manage were ones of dull shock, and an odd numbness that seemed almost calming.

The adults stopped them outside the ruined doors to the Great Hall, holding a silent conference before splitting up. Sirius continued down the corridor, still floating Dudley and Hermione before him, while Lupin casually held Malfoy by the collar to keep him from following. Malfoy, however, opted to rip free and run like hell, leaving Lupin holding a handful of black velvet and shaking his head.

"Well, Sirius will have fun with him," he muttered.

The remaining four of them faced the wreckage of the doors, all still as though steeling themselves for what lay beyond it. Harry glanced at the others and reached out a tremulous hand, terrified to touch the splintered wood but somehow knowing that he must go on. He took a final deep breath, willing his wildly beating heart to slow itself at least a little, and placing one sweaty palm against the wreckage he shoved with all his might.


	8. Part Eight (subtitled: Lupin's Issues an...

Muahaha....this part's not very long, but what the hey, it's crucial to later--er--developments, if indeed they may be called that. Please don't shoot me. ^_^

Lupin's Issues and Other Quintessential Disasters 

Nothing happened.

"Honey, I think you have to push a little harder," said Doors, arching an eyebrow at his stunned face.

"Oh," said Harry, still staring blankly at the quite solid barrier. "Right." He had absolutely no desire to do that, but still some strange, inexorable force seemed to draw him onward against his will. However, just as he had braced himself to push again, Lupin's hand suddenly seized his in an almost convulsive gesture, and the next moment Harry found himself crashing to the cold stone floor as the Defense professor collapsed. His grip on Harry's hand was so hard he was certain his fingers were being crushed to powder.

"Remus!" Doors whirled around and pried Harry's hand free, examining his fingers briefly before turning on Lupin.

"Remus, what the hell...?"

For a moment Harry thought Lupin was having some sort of seizure. Lacking Harry's hand to grip, he had seized Doors's hair instead, clenched hands white and bloodless. His entire body looked tense with pain, but it wasn't until he opened his eyes that Harry and Ron both choked.

"Lorna," he said, hissing with what had to be pure agony, "Lorna, it's not working...."

Lupin's eyes, normally a mild brown, now flared a weirdly inhuman yellow in the gloom of the passageway. It might have been Harry's imagination, but his eye teeth were looking abnormally sharp and pointy, and his pupils had narrowed to slits, disturbingly like those of a cat....or a wolf.

"CRUD!"

Ron leaped backwards as though he'd just walked through a spiderweb, knocking over a tall brass vase with a clang and nicely alerting everything within five floors of their presence. He had a look of sheer panic on his face, and Harry had a feeling that this was just a little too much for his carrot-haired friend. 

Lupin, who seemed intent on ripping all of Doors's hair out by the roots, shot a glare at Ron that sent him paler than milk and educed a whimper Harry wouldn't have thought a Weasley capable of.

"Brilliant, Weasley," he snarled, his voice so unlike that of familiar Professor Lupin that Harry stared even more. His eyes were flashing with a terrifyingly foreign menace. "I might just have to eat you for that one."

Harry started to gawk, but his stunned reverie was broken by an astoundingly loud _smack! _that would have knocked Lupin off his feet, were he not on the ground already. 

Doors had backhanded him with all the strength she could muster, the result being a livid bruise that at once started rushing to Lupin's cheek. He stared at her, some of that awful madness clearing from his disturbingly yellow eyes, and Harry saw some of the tension drain out of his body.

"Remus, snap out of it!" Doors said, staring at him in disbelief. "Just because it's your time of the month doesn't mean you get to turn the Weasleys into snack food! Hell, if that were the case I'd've had Fred and George soufflé two years ago."

Harry gawped at her, realization slapping him and making him feel like the world's most colossal prat. "Is there a full moon today?" he asked, sudden and unaccountable relief flooding through him. Lupin had been taking his anti-transformation potion since that summer, but there was always a chance that it could go a bit...haywire. 

"Well...yeah," said Doors, looking somewhat puzzled. "But even if his potion's malfunctioning, it's, well...daytime. He shouldn't be having any problems for another eight hours or so." She glanced at Lupin, who seemed to have relaxed considerably and no longer looked as though he were having all his insides torn out. 

"You going to be all right?" she asked, holding his eyes open and peering into them. Her face was drawn with worry and weariness, but Lupin managed a small, experimental smile.

"I...think so," he said, flexing his fingers tentatively and looking somewhat relieved when they didn't shoot fire up his arm. His face had the pinched look of someone who's just endured something inhumanely nasty, and Harry could see at once that there was no way he'd last five minutes against whatever lay beyond the rubble.

Doors apparently saw it too, for she beckoned the white-faced Ron over to them. "Honey, you're going to have to do me a favor and stay with Professor Lupin, okay? I don't know what's wrong with him, but he definitely isn't going in there." She jerked her head at the blocked doorway, and Ron gulped. He was going a nasty greenish color, his expression a mixture of guilt, shame, and slight fear. 

"Yeah, okay," he said. "Look, I'm sorry I--"

Doors waved a hand. "Save it," she said. "You should've seen what Sirius did the first time he saw Remus here transform. I don't think we ever did get the stain out of the carpet...."

Ron managed a weak grin, and Doors got to her feet. "And Remus, don't you dare eat that boy," she added, and there was something in her voice Harry had never heard before--it didn't sound like concern, but it was something awfully close. "I really don't want to see what Molly would do to you if you did."

She took Harry's hand, and Harry knew at once that leaving Lupin here was probably the last thing in the world she wanted to do. She glanced at him briefly, and he felt the quaking in his stomach worsen. 

"You ready?" Doors asked, squeezing his hand in an attempt at reassurance. Harry nodded, his throat too tight to speak.

"Well, all right then." Doors raised her wand, her hand closing even harder over her nephew's, and with a whispered "_Lucidus_," the rubble was cleared, leaving the Hall spread out before them.

Had Harry not known already that the room beyond the door was the Great Hall, he would never have guessed--it looked more like the site of some sort of bomb test. Any trace of wedding decoration had been shredded and trampled into bits, and the walls were scored by blasts of soot that spoke of several terrific explosions. The smoke was so thick that at first he could see little of his surroundings, but apparently some of the surroundings saw him--he scarcely had time to drop his jaw at the mess before some foul, leathery little winged thing darted out of the fog and straight at his face.

"Gah!" He leaped backwards, beating it off with his hands, before he remember to grab his wand and hit it with a freezing charm. He gazed intently at it, wondering just what it was, but Doors's hand closed around his collar and pulled him behind the ruins of a fallen pillar.

"Good move," she said, referring to Harry's wandwork. "You'd make Hermione jealous." Harry saw her eyes dart over the various cracks and holes in their little barricade, peering through at what lay beyond, and he sincerely hoped she could see through the misty stew better than he could. Despite the pounding of his heart his own attention wandered as well, searching out a hole in the haze that might show him something worth seeing. And most unfortunately, such a thing was granted. 

A puff of air wafted across the Hall, swirling the smoke and clearing the obscuring blur. Harry squinted through it, looking for some sign of human life, and his heart suddenly leaped into his mouth.

"_Ginny_," he whispered.

Some forty feet from him, lying pinned under one of the ruined tables, was the white-faced, blood-smeared figure of Ron's little sister, her purple robes torn and dusted with bits of mortar. For a moment Harry thought she was unconscious, but her hand twitched and clawed at the splintered wood, and he realized with an awful jolt that not only was she awake, she was probably in an ungodly amount of pain.

She wasn't the only one, either. As though he'd been put under some sort of Imperius curse, Harry's unwilling eyes continued searching the blurred haze for some other sign of life. The Hall itself looked mercifully deserted--most of the castle's inhabitants had fled to higher ground, and most of their enemies were being diligently rendered into chutney by the Failte outside. He did, however, spot Neville Longbottom lying unconscious near the far doors, and what looked like Angelina Johnson's arm, twisted at a hideously unnatural angle, protruding from the wreckage of the high table.

Sickened, he glanced at Doors, who was drawing in the dust with her wand and muttering rapidly, and then at the ruined archway behind where he knew Ron was waiting with Lupin. He put his hand on his pocket, feeling the reassuring lump of the Neverstone, and licking his dry lips he drew a shaky breath and addressed his aunt.

"Lorna--" he whispered, but that was as far as he got; scarcely had the word left his lips than there came a blinding flash of light and Harry was thrown backward a good twenty feet. His head cracked hard on the soot-streaked wall, and he knew no more.

....That's not too bad of a cliffhanger, is it? Not like the nasty one I could have left you with in the last chapter. Do be a dear and review; I live on them. ^_^


	9. Part Nine (sutbtitled: Victory at a Pric...

Okay.....I've got to say, I wrote the majority of this part while listening to SNL skits, which, needless to say, fits the story not at all. I blame any blatant screwiness on 'Famous Titties for 500'. (Damn Sean Connery....) For those of you who have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about and just want to get on with the fic--by all means, do so. I must say from the start that this part didn't turn out half so cool and battle-ish as I'd at first hoped--it seems I'm utterly incapable of writing serious HP fiction, more's the pity. So, en lieu of the fantastic bit of sword and sorcery you were supposed to receive in this installment, I give you...this. I hope it's not too disappointing, but if it is--well, go kill the producers of _Saturday Night Live_; it's entirely the fault of they and their _Celebrity Jeopardy_ skits. ^_^

Victory at a Price

When Harry came to himself, he was literally by himself. He groaned slightly, coming back to reality with the unwilling grogginess of one who knows he would be better off conked out. For a moment he wondered what he was doing lying on the floor, until his mind reoriented itself and made him sit up in alarm, only to clap a hand to his head and issue a hissed expletive.

"This just keeps getting better and better," he muttered, wincing as he fingered the back of his head. His stomach was churning and his legs felt like jelly, and there was a faint ringing in his ears that could only have come from cracking his head so hard. He knew quite well his legs would only dump him right back to the floor if he tried to stand, and so he lay where he was and cautiously took in his surroundings.

He didn't know how long he'd been out, but everything around him was blacker than pitch. The only light came from the now noticeably thinner smoke, which seemed to glow faintly, and whatever dim rays managed to filter through the cloudy ceiling. A moment's reflection told him it was probably a good thing he couldn't just jump up and start yelling for anyone--Lord knew what that would bring swooping down on him. The silence was smothering, and for one awful moment he feared he'd slept right through the battle--if he had, his side had most certainly lost.

He sat up cautiously, feeling blindly for his glasses and praying they weren't broken. Perching them on his nose, he turned his aching head and looked for some break in the blackness. Scarcely had he done so than he caught his breath and wished he hadn't.

At the far end of the Hall, near the smashed remains of the arbor, stood what had to be the most enormous cauldron Harry had ever seen, suspended over a sickly green fire that lit the walls with a cold, shivery light. Dim though it was it made Harry squint, shooting bolts of pain through his skull. He sat where he was, not daring to move and hardly daring to breathe, until there came a sudden movement and he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"_Wormtail_?" he whispered, disbelieving.

Wormtail it was, the man once known as Peter Pettigrew, though his appearance was so vastly different from Harry's last memory of him it was a wonder he'd recognized the man at all. His hair was as lank and pale as ever, and he still twitched occasionally, but he no longer cringed as though in constant fear of a blow, and there was a purposefulness to his movements that made Harry's blood run cold. Worse than all that, however, were the arms.

Pettigrew had been lacking his upper limbs for the better part of two years, ever since Hermione's infamously botched disarming spell, but he certainly wasn't now--long, oddly fluid hands were adding a thick red liquid to the cauldron, stirring it in with a great metal ladle. There was something wrong about them, and as Harry squinted he realized they were made of some strange, silvery-looking metal that glinted unpleasantly in the icy light.

He finished adding his ingredients, grinning somewhat nastily, and Harry felt his stomach knot itself into a hopeless tangle as the little man seized a torch from the wall and lit it in the flames--the last thing in the world he needed was for Pettigrew to spot him and decide to toss him into the brew as well. A moment later, however, all his fears for himself were forgotten.

Pettigrew turned, holding his brand aloft, and their shaking luminescence revealed that he was by no means alone. Harry caught his breath, fighting an incredible urge to vomit, and shaking with helplessness he watched as Wormtail approached the limp, shackled form of a man who could only be Lupin.

"So," he whispered, his voice echoing in the deathly stillness of the Hall, and Harry saw Lupin raise his head. "You thought you could ignore the summons, did you? Thought that finding a way to suppress it could change what you are?"

Lupin stared steadfastly at Pettigrew, and even from this distance Harry could see that he was in a considerable amount of pain. He said nothing, but Pettigrew evidently found the eerie yellow of his eyes unsettling enough, for he broke off his gaze and started pacing.

"Remus, whether you like it or not you are our Master's servant, and as such you must know the consequences for refusing a summons," he said, his voice cold and slightly amused. He faced Lupin once more, holding his torch uncomfortably close to the other man's face. "Master has no use for those who will not bow to him. I suggest you consider this, while you still have time."

Lupin drew a breath, still gazing unblinkingly at him. "And which master would that be, Peter?" he asked quietly, his voice as calm and mild as ever. "I was under the impression that you served Lord Voldemort, but he has apparently been usurped by a Lord of his own."

Pettigrew's expression changed, making him look much more like the panicked little rat-man Harry was used to. His eyes widened, and when he spoke his voice came out in his old terrified squeak. "Don't--don't you _dare_ bring him into this!" he all but cheeped, his pasty face going paler. His eyes darted from side to side, as though afraid the walls had ears (which, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Harry one bit.) "Lord--" he seemed to have some trouble with the word "--Slytherin has taken no active part in this, and we all want it to stay that way." Pettigrew drew himself up, puffing out his chest importantly and trying unsuccessfully to mask his fear. "He has entrusted Master and I to ensure that this school is cleansed."

He obviously expected Lupin to respond to this, but the latter did not; he merely stared with an inscrutable yellow-eyed placidity that seemed to knock all the wind out of Pettigrew's sails. Harry didn't blame him--the thought of staring a hungry, untransformed werewolf in the eye wasn't exactly a nice one, to say the least.

Pettigrew fidgeted for a moment, his face showing that he was in the throws of thinking up something waspishly grand and evil, but three minutes of this action failed to produce anything more than a few incoherent squeaks, and in the end he just scuttled off into the shadows again. 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief--he was still in an extremely nasty fix, but somehow it seemed far less horrible with Pettigrew out of sight. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do, but he had an unpleasant feeling that if anyone was going to undo this mess, it was going to have to be him.

Slowly he drew the Neverstone from his pocket, praying it wasn't going to flare like some rainbow sun and give him away. The orb apparently understood the situation, for it remained blacker than obsidian save for a tiny spark at its very center. Harry's sweaty hands nearly dropped it, but the stone was cool against his skin, and the sight of that pinprick of light was enough to calm the pounding of his heart a little. The nasty, fluttery feeling in his stomach seemed to abate as well, as though the orb were drawing his panic out through his fingertips.

He drew a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts into something at least halfway cohesive. He still didn't have the faintest idea how he was supposed to communicate with this thing, but the feeling of it in his trembling hands was enough to tell him that the stone held more power beneath its smooth black surface than that of every witch and wizard here combined. The thought of wielding it should have been enough to knock him over like a tenpin, but Harry felt oddly...calm. He flicked his sweaty hair from his eyes--it was damp and sticky, though with just what, he didn't want to know--and bent his head until the tip of his nose was nearly touching the stone.

"Can you.....can you help me?" he whispered, his voice cracked and hoarse in the darkness. He didn't expect any response, and so nearly dropped the orb in shock when a small, extremely mischievous voice started giggling inside his head.

-_Aye, o' course I can, little one._-

Harry choked, the Neverstone slipping in his grasp. The unexpected appearance of this Voice was startling enough, but more disturbing still was the fact that it seemed to be issuing from within his own head. It had a peculiarly beautiful timbre, and the simple sentence seemed to rise and fall with the sonorous cadence of the wind. It reminded him of Doors's voice, though this one seemed somehow....truer, in some way Harry couldn't understand.

-_Ah, now, don't be afraid-_ The intonation was that of a child, with the same peculiar, traceless accent as his aunt's, but this one held infinitely more power than Lorna's. Harry, for some unfathomable reason, felt that this voice belonged to a creature far older than anything any of his enemies could imagine.

"I--I'm not," he stuttered, his voice scarcely audible.

-_Sure you are--hell, in a situation like yours you'd have to be starkers not to be. But don't worry, I won't let anybody get you._-

As the voice spoke, the faint spark of light within the Neverstone slowly grew and swirled, its pattern far more intricate than Harry had ever seen it. The colors seemed to flash with an almost metallic light, so varied and multifarious in their tumbling that he was unable to draw his eyes away from it.

"It's not me I'm afraid for," he whispered, feeling vaguely that he really ought to be paying attention to the rest of his surroundings. "It's everyone else--Slytherin and Voldemort're sure to have gotten them by now, I know they've got Lupin, and Sirius said--"

-_Ah, now_- The voice cut him off. -_You're a thoughtful soul, sure. Well, don't you worry about your friends--you and I are gonna have some fun saving them. Never you mind what Sirius said; he's mortal, and therefore completely stupid.-_

This last puzzled Harry, but he didn't get a chance to press it. Dimly he heard a scuffling near the far end of the Hall, and a bolt of panic shot through him at the thought of what horror Pettigrew had likely cooked up for Lupin. He tore his eyes away from the orb and glanced into the darkness--

--and found himself staring not at Pettigrew, but at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord stood beside the large cauldron, his red eyes glinting unpleasantly as he waved a skeletal hand through the sickly green steam. So malicious was the smile on his chalky face that Harry's scar ought to have been screaming at him, until he remembered with a start that it was not Voldemort but Salazar Slytherin standing across the room. A prospect that was about forty times worse.

For a moment Harry froze in horror, his stomach dropping to his toes and his heart leaping into his mouth, but the orb in his hands flared warmer and swiftly called him back to earth.

-_Aye, he's an ugly one, all right, but we'll take care of him. Now, Harry, you're going to have to listen to me very carefully, if we're actually going to get this right the first time._-

The Voice in Harry's head proceeded to whisper instructions to him, and Harry, still numbed by his own terror, followed them blindly. He was scarcely aware of what he was doing, as he chanted words he did not understand under his breath, but when he raised his eyes from the Neverstone several minutes later they flared as brilliant and green as his aunt's, and a strange, lovely, half-crazed enchantment coursed through his veins.

His vision was wholly consumed by the swirling incandescence within the orb, but his ears suddenly became aware of another voice, a voice so softly sibilant and mind-numbingly evil that it seemed to fairly freeze the stones in the floor. It pierced his ears like a dart of poisoned ice, circling round him in an almost palpable shroud of hypnotic malevolence, and for a moment Harry felt his blood still as it hissed at him.

"Well, Potter. What sort of toy is it you've found?"

Harry knew without looking up who it was--he could feel merciless red eyes boring into him, the eyes of Voldemort alight with the mind and terrible, impious humor of Salazar Slytherin. He felt vaguely that he ought to be terrified, and somewhere within him a faint alarm was going off, but far more pressing than the impending assault of the Dark Lord was the wonderful, almost incomprehensible power that was coursing through him like quicksilver. He could still hear the Voice of the Neverstone inside his head, whispering a language he had never heard yet fully understood, and while its lyrical lilt rose and fell within his skull he looked up. 

His emerald eyes met the demonic red gaze of his new nemesis, flashing an unnatural radiance. Terrible indeed was the visage that floated in the darkness before him--face of Voldemort, paper-white and drawn, with all the ancient evil of the wicked Hogwarts founder staring out through its slitted eyes. Held in a long, skeletal hand was a wand of ebony, its tip glowing faintly with the pale green light of the Killing Curse. As Harry gazed motionless from his place on the floor a cold, cruel smirk crept across the pallid face, twisting Slytherin's countenance into a grotesque parody of mirth.

"Harry Potter," he whispered, his voice soft in the darkness, soft and lined with a velvet menace. "My servant Voldemort told me of you. He said that his powers and eventually his life were forfeited to your bizarre luck, and if in his return to this earth he could do but one thing, it would be to watch you die." Slytherin's other hand, pale and spidery in the gloom, swept around the darkened walls. "He has been faithful to me, and so I shall grant him what he desires so badly. But first, I think you must watch the...education...of your fellow evil-fighting cohorts."

He flicked his wand, sending a thin thread of green light snaking past the dim forms on the walls beyond, and in its faint glow one could make out the features of half of Hogwarts, shackled half-conscious to the walls. Had Harry seen them he would likely have sat frozen in horror and let the entire thing fall to pieces, but most fortunately for everyone he did not.

Harry's eyes stayed trained on Slytherin's twisted face, his heart pounding with a combination of exhilaration and terror, and as his fingers tightened on the smooth orb he did the only thing he was capable of. Harry started laughing.

It was as though someone had flicked on a light switch inside his head. His friends were chained to the walls all around him, a horde of zombies was likely tearing down the outside of the school, and Salazar Slytherin was staring at him with the gaze of a demonic hawk, but at the thought of what the stone in his hands could (and likely would) do to them was just too much--vision after vision chased itself through his brain, and all he could do was cackle like a lunatic.

How long he would have remained thus, he didn't know--most fortunately, the Voice of the Neverstone managed to override his temporary madness before Slytherin grew fed up and smashed his head in.

-_Are you off your onion? GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, IDIOT!_-

And Harry, without the slightest change of expression, leaped to his feet and bolted for dear life. 

The blackness swirled around him as he ran, stumbling over the rubble and his own feet, and the light of the Neverstone did little save make him even more blind. He had a suspicion that the stone was playing with him as much as everyone else, and if he wasn't careful it was liable to destroy him along with the rest of the throng.

He heard no footfalls in the rubble behind him, something which worried him considerably--if Slytherin wasn't chasing after him, it meant he was likely thinking up some extremely nasty curse to hurl.

"What do I do now?" he wondered desperately, weaving back and forth as he ran in hope of avoiding the wrath of Slytherin's wand. Playing with the Neverstone was all well and good when he was sitting up in Trelawney's classroom, but being trapped in a room with a load of people trying to kill him was another story entirely.

Quite suddenly, a hand shot out of the blackness and seized his collar. Harry fought back a cry as he was pulled next to the wall, but a moment later Sirius's voice hissed to him, fearful and worried.

"Harry," he whispered hoarsely. "Thank God you're all right." His hands found his godson's shoulders, and Harry saw his eyes glint in the light of the Neverstone. 

"Harry, listen to me," he whispered, cutting off the questions that rose in Harry's throat. "You have to take that thing and throw it in the cauldron. No, don't look at me like that, I mean it--you have to put the Stone in that poison over there or it'll kill us all. The second the Neverstone touches that potion, Slytherin and all his...creations...will be destroyed."

Somewhere to Harry's left the rubble shifted, and he flinched. "Why?" he heard himself asking.

"If Slytherin completes the potion, it will cement he and his army in their corporeal forms--the zombies won't be zombies any more." Sirius's voice cracked, his fingers trembling.

Harry shivered, but Sirius shook his shoulders. "Come on, Harry," he whispered. "Let's get this over with while we still have a chance."

The two of them started blindly into the darkness, the light of the Neverstone dimming as if to keep them unseen. Its Voice was silent--obviously it knew of the fate that awaited it, but Harry would just as soon have had it silent anyway.

He stumbled sideways on some invisible wreckage, cursing, but no sooner had he steadied himself than there came a blinding flash of light, and suddenly many things happened at once.

The ground beneath Harry's feet pitched sideways, knocking him to the floor and cracking his already aching head. He stifled a cry at the bolt of agony that shot through his temples, but a moment later his pain was forgotten as he caught sight of something far more serious.

The Neverstone flared suddenly brighter in his hands, and Harry found himself confronted with one of the worst tableaux he had ever seen--Salazar Slytherin, tall, black-robed, and menacing, locked in a furious struggle with his godfather, who was trying desperately to keep Slytherin's wand pointed away from Harry.

For a moment Harry sat frozen, horrified. Never had Sirius looked more like the murderer he had so long been thought--his face was white and smeared with blood, his teeth bared in a snarl as he fought with waning strength against his far more powerful enemy. It wouldn't be long before Slytherin overpowered him, and Harry was torn--if he tried to help Sirius he'd likely be killed himself and the Neverstone taken from him, but Slytherin would surely kill Sirius before he could get the Stone into the cauldron.

His indecision did not last long. Quite suddenly he found himself on his feet, the glowing Stone clutched before him and its bizarre power coursing through him stronger than ever. The swirling darkness around him seemed to thin, as his fingers tightened on the Neverstone and, for the second time in a very short while, he found himself bolting for his life.

The cauldron loomed black and forbidding some distance across the Hall, still bubbling away over its icy fire. Harry knew at once that he'd never make it, that Slytherin would surely be able to hit him with a curse before he got anywhere near the blasted potion, but, as he thought wryly to himself, what else was he going to do?

His feet flew over the mess of stone and mortar as though it were solid ground, propelling him as fast as ever they could toward the cauldron. The stone in his hands flared brilliantly, ready to supernova the second it touched that vile potion, but just as he leaped into throwing distance of the bubbling green liquid something hit him violently on the back of the head, and he found himself thrown forward onto the stones.

Harry felt all his breath escape with a _woosh_ as he hit the ground, daggers in his skull and a horrible quaking in his stomach. The Neverstone rolled from his grasp across the flagstones, its rainbow tumult almost boiling beneath its smooth surface. Before he could gather wits or breath enough to lunge for it, however, he felt what was unmistakably a pair of hands wrap themselves around his throat.

"Harry, you meddlesome little fool," hissed a voice--the squeaky, slightly nasal voice of Peter Pettigrew. His silvery hands cut into Harry's neck like piano wire, making him gag and choke while a blackness slowly crept over his vision. "How many people have told you to be careful, lest you meet the same sticky end as your parents?" His inhumanely strong metal fingers dug into Harry's skin, now slick with something he really didn't want to know about.

Pettigrew's breath was hot and foul in his ear, and the blackness crept even further across Harry's eyes--he knew it wouldn't be long before he passed out, and any hope they might have had would be as dead as the zombies outside. Dimly he heard a sickening _crack_ and a cry of agony from Sirius, but his consciousness was fading fast...any second now it would ebb away entirely, and the last thing he would see was the light of the Neverstone, flashing in front of his eyes...

_You said you'd help me_, he thought vaguely, his hand reaching weakly for the stone as he tried and failed to struggle against the strength of Pettigrew's unnatural arms. And, to his very great surprise, through the thickness and smothering pain of his head there came an answer.

-_So I did-_ the Voice retorted, sounding somewhat miffed. -_I just ne'er told you _when._ You don't need help yet._-

Harry didn't get the chance to retort to this, much though he would have liked to--no sooner had the Voice spoken than there came the crashing of stone and the squealing roar of tearing metal, and a moment later he found himself (with Pettigrew still attached to his neck like a leech) hurled head over feet into the darkness. There was a strange growling quite close to him, and he felt Pettigrew's fingers pried from his throat, followed by a furious scuffling far superior to that made by Slytherin and Sirius.

Harry cradled his now furiously aching head in his hands, lying still amid the stones for a moment while his breath struggled to catch itself. His blurry eyes fought for focus through his cracked glasses, and once they'd found it he stared, absolutely floored for the umpteenth time that day.

His snarling savior was none other than Lupin, still bearing a set of iron shackles around his wrists, needle-like fangs bared and yellow eyes shining with the hunger of a wolf. At the moment one of his hands was gripping Pettigrew's lank shock of hair, while the other one tilted his chin back in an effort to expose his jugular. Harry realized with a feeling of nausea that Lupin was in all likelihood planning to turn Pettigrew into late brunch, but before he could cry out or do something equally stupid one of Pettigrew's silver hands reached up and caught the hungry werewolf by the throat.

The grip was a weak one, but to Harry's surprise Lupin let out a cry of pain and jerked backwards, losing his hold on his enemy. Pettigrew seized his opportunity and leaped to his feet, catching Lupin's neck in his uncanny death-grip and grinning maliciously.

"Stupid werewolf," he sneered, his voice cracking from the effort. "Don't you know what silver does to your kind? I've wanted to do this for years...."

Lupin's face had gone white with agony, his hands scrabbling to loosen the fingers that were searing into his flesh. Harry struggled to gain his feet, not thinking what he was going to do but knowing he had to do something, but fortunately for him he didn't have to--there came a screeching like that of a wildcat, and a moment later something--or someone--landed on Pettigrew's head like a ton of bricks.

"_Te bisterdon tumare anava, eyelak! Te malavel les i menkiva! Dili khan llara zham de benchienne!"_

Doors, looking like she'd been dragged through a field of blackberries and then rolled down a mountain for good measure, had hold of Pettigrew by both his ears, pulling him backward and firing at him what had to be the longest strand of Romani profanity Harry had ever heard. Pettigrew had released Lupin, who at once collapsed to the floor, and Lorna, who appeared so incensed that her words were failing her, gave up on her tirade and started ripping out his hair instead.

"Harry, will you not hurry up and finish the job already? That potion's not going to wait on you all day!" 

His aunt's eyes flicked toward him over the top of Pettigrew's head, and Harry, who had been fighting gravity and his own vertigo for the last three minutes, finally managed to make it more or less to his feet and stumble toward the cauldron once more. Screams were piercing his fuzzy head, screams and yells and at least one voice cheering on the fight, all emanating from the prisoners chained to the walls in the gloom beyond. Horribly he thought he heard Ginny Weasley among them, sobbing and crying, but the light of the Neverstone was shining into the furry blur of his vision and his wounded brain knew that above all else, _he must get it into that cauldron._

He staggered sideways, scarcely registering the sounds of the rather nasty fight behind him, his concentration trained wholly on the swirling orb at his feet. He half-fell while bending to retrieve it, but just as his fingers brushed its cool, smooth surface he felt yet another hand close around his collar--a cold, dry, skeletally thin hand, that jerked him violently backward and nearly threw him to the ground.

"Potter, you daft little mongrel, what do you think you're doing?" Slytherin hissed, his voice still soft and almost silky. _He sounds like Snape_, Harry thought vaguely, momentarily blinded by the pain in his head as Slytherin's eyes burned into his. Dull terror washed over him, accompanied by a formless despair that seemed to seep through his veins like one of Madam Pomfrey's sleeping draughts. He found he could not summon words to answer, as the agony in his head slowly grew and multiplied, drowning out the screams of his classmates, cutting off the sounds of Pettigrew's struggles behind him. His mind was slowly being consumed by those terrible red eyes, and all he could feel was pain.

Slytherin's pale finger touched his forehead, drawing a line across his brow. "Good boy," he murmured, his voice at once painful and soothing. "You'll make a nice addition to my little poison....the blood of the infamous Harry Potter should make it potent indeed."

Harry's consciousness began once more to ebb from him, though this time he seemed unable to fight as his will drained away. He was drowning in red, his eyes burning with the scalding light of his enemy's, and just when he thought he could bear it no more, the Voice of the Neverstone rang out inside his tormented head.

-_All right, _now_ you need help._- 

And no sooner had it spoken than the terrible redness faded from his vision, and the pain in his head seemed to drain out through his fingertips as he sank to the floor, Slytherin's hands releasing him.

"MUAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

Something tore Slytherin away from him, leaving him free and alone on the floor. For a moment everything seemed to spin, and the only thing that wasn't hopelessly disoriented was the feeling of the Neverstone in his palm. His vision swam, and what little was in his stomach churned like the lake on a stormy day. He gulped for air, willing his dizziness away and wondering if his legs would get him to the cauldron or not.

-_Well, don't just _sit_ there_- The voice seemed almost amused. -_My diversion's not going to last forever, you know._-

Harry blinked hard, the fuzz in his eyes suddenly clearing, leaving them to focus on his second strange savior. And once he did, he choked.

It was Malfoy--not the idiotic, lovestruck prat he'd been for the last two years, but the real Malfoy, in all his sneering, lip-curling splendor. He'd caught Slytherin in as tight a bear-hug as he could manage, pinning his arms to his sides and trying without much success to jam a sharpened wand into his throat. He was evil, he was crazy, he was suicidal-- 

And he was currently grinning like the Cheshire Cat on mushroom oil.

"Hit him, Harry, hit him!" he cried, a sort of wicked glee in his voice as Slytherin cursed at him in ways Harry had not thought possible.

Harry simply stared, overcome by a sudden and extremely violent urge to burst out laughing. Dimly he heard a nasty sort of squashing behind him, accompanied by some rather rat-like squeaking, but the thought of throwing a punch at an evil Hogwarts founder in a headlock was just too much--he stood, teetering on the verge of maniacal snickering, while two separate demi-wars raged before and behind him.

Pettigrew let out one last whimper, and Harry's amusing reverie was cut short by something smacking him rather harder than was necessary on the back. Startled, he glanced at his feet and saw that it was one of Pettigrew's silver arms, ripped clean out of the socket and now bearing small splatters of something extremely unpleasant looking. He whirled around to find Doors tugging hard at the unfortunate rat-man's other arm, her eyes alight with mischief at the display Malfoy was putting on.

"Get _off_ me, you cursed little brat!" Slytherin roared, trying to hurl a spell at Malfoy and missing by a good yard. A jet of green light ricocheted off the wall beyond, and Ginny Weasley gave out a terrified screech.

Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Hey," he said, tightening his grip on Slytherin's shoulders. "Nobody torments the pipsqueak but ME!" And without the slightest hesitation, he sank his teeth into Slytherin's ear.

Harry choked back a wild shriek of laughter, and as if some binding spell on him had been broken he leaped to his feet, the Neverstone clutched in his right hand, and started for the cauldron once more.

He could hear Doors behind him, laughing so hard she was coughing helplessly, and Pettigrew sniveling as she continued to flog the hell out of him with his own arm. Of Lupin and Sirius he could hear nothing, but he had no time to stop and consider this--at last, the cauldron was before him, its sickening contents still bubbling away and giving off a foul odor of decay. There was something horrible about this whole scene, despite Malfoy and Doors's antics--his aunt's laughter was half-crazed and almost gurgling, and the unholy glee in Malfoy's eyes was just that--a little too unholy. Harry had an uneasy feeling that they were all possessed, but a glance at the orb in his hand told him that didn't matter.

The rainbow smoke within the Neverstone slowed its swirling, and for a moment Harry hesitated as he held it over the cauldron.

-_Go on, now_- the Voice whispered, much of the gaiety now gone from it. -_There's no help for it--just chuck it on in there and run like hell. I promise you, it's the best thing you can do._-

Harry stared at the beautiful thing a moment longer, before turning for one last look at Slytherin.

"Hey, Salazar!" he bellowed, holding the orb aloft in his fingers and grinning what could only be described as a Marauder's grin. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and the weight that had been pressing on his heart seemed to lift at being so near his goal.

Slytherin paused his scuffle with Malfoy and looked up. It wasn't possible for him to pale, but his face went almost green and his eyes widened in horror as he saw what Harry was about to do. He tried to lunge for the cauldron, but Malfoy was equal to that and promptly dug his heels into the rubble.

"_What are you doing what that thing, Potter_?!" he thundered, kicking viciously at Malfoy and reaching for his wand.

Harry's grin only broadened. "Catch," he whispered, and threw the Stone into the air.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as it spun an arc over his head, sailing gracefully past him and landing with a soft splosh into the potion. For a moment all was utterly still, and then--

"Uh-oh," Malfoy muttered.

Harry had one last glimpse of the cauldron, before his eyes were seared with a blinding flash of light, a light as tumultuous and translucent as that of the Neverstone that exploded from the cauldron and flashed into the darkest recesses of the Hall. Harry threw himself to the floor, instinctively covering his head as his ears filled with a roaring that sounded like someone had dumped the entire cast of _The Lion King _ into a deep fryer. The entire Great Hall shook from foundation to ceiling, even more stone crashing down around him and the people on the walls quite literally shrieking Apocalypse.

Harry stayed where he was, certain he was about to be smashed into the floor. His head was aching so fiercely he feared it would split in two, but the tearing and cracking of the stone was subsiding and he was still more or less intact. Whatever immediately followed this fantastic tremor he never knew, for, the pain in his head overpowering, his body resorted to its final defense against the horrible onslaught to his senses.

Harry passed out.

****

It couldn't have been long before he came to, for the dust still hadn't settled. It was a good deal lighter in the Hall now, and the stillness of a tomb hung over all.

In the dim glow filtering from the ceiling Harry made out line upon line of shackles, now empty of their occupants and dangling rather forlornly. So much wrack and ruin had smashed to the floor that the entire Hall looked like some weird Martian landscape, cratered and pitted and covered in grit. Here and there a knot of people stood, huddled quiet and dazed very close to one another.

Harry gingerly felt his head--it was still sore, but the furious agony that had pierced through it like needles of ice was gone. His glasses were cracked and his white robes smeared with dirt and dust and blood, but aside from wobbly legs and a queasy stomach, he was miraculously unhurt. His fingers found a long, thin scar running along his scalp, but no trace of any grievous injury could he find.

He felt as dazed as everyone else looked, and he could not for the life of him figure out what had happened. Obviously they'd won--hadn't they? His head was so muddled that this could easily all be some sort of dream. He was vaguely aware that his feet were moving, but it wasn't until there came a faint cough from the wreckage that he snapped fully out of his haze.

"Harry?" whispered a small voice directly beside him, making him nearly jump out of his skin. He whirled round, startled, and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was Ginny Weasley, lying on a conjured stretcher under a thick blanket. Her face had been washed of its grime and blood, and there was a sleepy peacefulness in her expression that spoke of a recent Sleeping Draught.

"Hey, Gin," he said, squatting down beside her. He was relieved to see that whatever had been paining her so was obviously gone, though he was frankly puzzled as to who her doctor was.

"Who fixed you up?" he asked, his feet grinding in the grit as he took another look around the Hall.

Ginny yawned. "The same person that healed you," she said, settling contentedly back onto her fat pillow, an object that contrasted oddly with the destruction around her.

Harry touched the scar on the back of his head again, and realized that someone must have sealed up his nasty little wound while he was still out of it. His face was clean like Ginny's, though his healer had obviously deemed a sleeping potion unnecessary.

"Hey, Harry?" Ginny muttered sleepily, struggling to keep her eyelids open for a few more seconds.

"Yeah?" Harry said, once more startled out of his wonderings.

"Where's Ron at? Will you see if he's okay for me?"

Harry at once felt a great block of ice slide into his stomach--Ron had been with Lupin, and from what he had seen Lupin had been most decidedly...not himself. "Er, sure," he muttered, before getting to his feet and fairly flying for what was left of the far doors.

What if something had happened to Ron and Hermione? Lord knew what had been going on in the rest of the school--Slytherin had been more than bad enough, but he was by no means the only Nameless No-No wandering around the castle during the whole fracas. Suppose Voldemort had come across the conked-out Hermione and decided to use her for cursing practice? Harry felt slightly sick at the thought.

He skidded out into the corridor, which wasn't choked with nearly as much debris as the Hall, and was about to go tearing off up the far steps when out of nowhere a hand clamped over his mouth. Arms with the strength of iron pinned him still, and a moment later Harry felt the cold, stinging bite of a steel blade at his throat.

"So, Potter," hissed a voice, soft as silk and frigid as the winter air. "Thought you'd go searching for Weasley, did you?" The blade gouged harder into his throat, making him gasp and choke. Long fingers dug into his cheek as the hand on Harry's mouth drew his head back, allowing the knife greater access to the hollow of his chin, and the mellifluous, icy voice continued in a velvet whisper,

"How would you like to meet your parents instead?"

Harry choked.

Snape chuckled.

And Harry knew at once that he was completely, and utterly, screwed.

A/N: Oi....was that not awful? I'm sorry, folks, but my creativity seemed to bail out on this chapter. I'll probably redo it at some point in time, but meanwhile...I don't want to be disemboweled by angry minions after the next part. I know this was a nasty cliffhanger, but bear with me, it _will_ be resolved. Also, no, I haven't forgotten about Dumbledore--you'll learn just what he was up to during this whole fiasco in the next part. ::wipes forehead in exhaustion::

Oh, and a slight query, probably hypothetical: Does anyone happen to have a ship preference for Doors? 'cause I'm undecided on that one, and I'm curious to see if anyone out there actually has an idea. ::weary grin::

SpamWarrior, the Thoroughly Exhausted


	10. Part Ten (subtitled: The Truth: The Rest...

I know this is late. It's so late I'm not even going to try and make an excuse for it, though I will say that part of the blame goes to my newfound employment, which has been stealing most of my spare time and leaving me exhausted for the rest of it. This is not the end of the story; there's at least one more part, perhaps two. Hopefully those won't take quite so long as this one.

I also notify you now, this part is a bit darker than the rest of the fic, and rather violent. I'd rate this one PG13 to R for violence, depending on your tastes, so don't say I didn't warn you. ^_^ I don't think I left it at a cliffhanger; that last one was so nasty, I tried to leave at least some sense of temporary closure. :)

The Truth: The Rest of It

Quite fortunately for Harry, his first instinct was to freeze where he was. Snape's knife was pressed so hard into his neck that the slightest movement could have cost him his head, and so he stood as motionless as a statue.

His eyes darted up and down the corridor, hoping mightily for some sign of activity, but his supply of weird rescuers seemed to have run out. Silently he cursed himself for ever leaving the Hall, but his fear for Ron and Hermione was only made the worse--if he was attacked this close to the Hall, Lord knew what had happened to his friends.

"Oh, you needn't worry about your friends, Potter," Snape hissed softly, as though reading Harry's mind. "They have suffered no long-term harm." He removed his hand from Harry's mouth, and Harry fought the urge to cough. Silently he weighed his options, figured he was buggered either way, and ventured a whispered question.

"W-What do you want from me?" he asked, hoping his sudden query wouldn't surprise the Potions master into slicing his head off--the man had obviously gone round the bend at last, and Harry didn't want to think about what he might do if startled.

"Oh, Potter, honestly," Snape snarled, and before Harry could blink he found himself backed against the cold stone wall, the knife still under his chin and Snape's eyes boring into his, his free hand clenching Harry's collar and keeping him pinned to the wall. "All your odious 'detective work' and you still don't know?" His lips curled into a sneer.

Harry stared at him, petrified. However mad Snape had seemed over the course of the last year, however unstable the glint in his eyes had been, it was nothing to the look of him now. His teeth were bared in an almost animal snarl, his hair hanging in his face and falling in a knotted tangle to his shoulders. But far worse than this asylum appearance was the glimmer that shone in his empty black eyes--it was the gleam of the utterly insane, and it was resting companionably beside the twinkle of the homicidal.

Harry shook his head faintly, clamping his mouth shut tight to keep his heart from escaping through it. His only thought was the miserable realization that he had been right, Snape _had_ been out to kill him, and that he had likely lived through what was probably the most disastrous battle in wizarding history only to be disemboweled by his own Potions teacher.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" he asked intelligently, the words forcing themselves out before he could stop them.

Snape's mouth twisted into a horrible parody of a smile. "My, but you catch on quick, Potter," he whispered, a tone of such mocking in his voice that it fairly stung Harry's ears. "Of course I am."

"Why?" he asked tremulously, before Snape could gather his wits and decapitate him. He was far more terrified now than he had been while fighting Slytherin, for at least Slytherin had been halfway sane--matching wits with a madman was a far stickier bit of work than he was capable of dealing with right now, and it was made all the more nerve-wracking by the fact that the situation was entirely out of his control.

Snape's malicious smirk faded a bit, and Harry felt his stomach drop. For a second something like panic flitted across the face of the Potions master, and his hand jerked almost imperceptibly against Harry's throat. Harry's feet shifted uncomfortably in the rubble, and a sudden draft made him shiver as Snape's half-mad eyes bored into his. It was clear the question had caught him off-guard, but whether this was good or bad remained to be seen.

"Does it _really_ matter, Potter?" he said after a moment. His voice was soft and malicious, but Harry thought he could detect the slightest waver of uncertainty in it as well. "Whatever my reasons, they'll have little effect on the end result." The point of the knife dug ever so slightly deeper into Harry's throat, as if to emphasize his last words.

Harry gulped, sweat trickling down his temple. His heart was pounding like mad, and the sudden dig of the blade seemed to drive every thought, sane or otherwise, from his head. He felt his knees start to wobble and knew it was only a matter of time before they gave way completely, but before all his hope could seep out through his feet something cut through his panicked reverie.

-_Stall him_-

Harry started, his eyes widening. _What the--?_ he thought, but the Voice cut him off.

-_You heard me, kid, stall him. Help is on the way._-

It was the Voice of the Neverstone, but Harry didn't even pause to fully register this--it said to stall Snape, and stall him Harry must, if he didn't want to join Nearly Headless Nick.

"Uh...er..." he muttered, searching valiantly for something resembling a full sentence. "If you're going to kill me and all, I think I at least ought to know...why, right?" He cringed, realizing this probably wasn't the wisest thing he could have said. He half expected Snape to stare at him as though _he_ were the one who'd gone off his rocker, but he did nothing of the sort--his eyes narrowed suspiciously, and Harry felt a horrible sinking sensation as he recalled the many occasions Snape had seemingly read his mind.

A slow, horrible smile crept across his face, far worse than any of the madhouse smirks he'd thus far delivered--this was a knowing smile, a grin of such terrible comprehending malevolence that the very sight of it made Harry fairly quake with terror.

"I see," he whispered, so softly Harry could scarcely hear him. There was a faint note of respect in his voice, and he brought his eyes very close to Harry's, searching them. "Congratulations," he said. "I did not think it possible that one could bond with a Stone so quickly...I must say, I am impressed."

Harry shrank back further against the wall, his frail optimism shattering. Snape's eyes glinted wickedly, his knife matching Harry's recoil, but whatever horrid thing he was about to do was rather rudely interrupted.

"Well, the boy's far from stupid, you know."

Harry's heart leaped in his chest, only to jam in his throat as the blade dug hard enough into his neck to draw blood. Never had he heard such a welcome voice, and despite the fact that it was filled with cold venom he felt a wild surge of hope rise within him.

He felt Snape tense, the veins in his neck standing out as his entire body went rigid. Harry was probably in more danger now than he had been since the night his parents died, but no matter how dire the situation he could not suppress a mad, stomach-fluttering excitement that, combined with his terror and exhaustion, threatened to rob him of his recently regained consciousness.

Snape's eyes flickered away from his, and Harry ventured a glance to his right and immediately wished he hadn't. He wasn't quite prepared for what he saw.

Doors was standing in the debris near the entrance to the Great Hall, her hair an indescribable mess and wielding a sword in her spidery hand like some avenging elf-minion from Hell. In the gloom her eyes flared with unnatural brilliance, two bright and savage points of light that shone out like small beacons. Her robes were in an even worse state than Harry's, but he scarcely noticed this, for there seemed to be something incredibly...wrong...with her eyes, something other than their strange green fire that made him faintly nauseous.

"Hello, Lorna," Snape said softly, his hand tightening on Harry's collar. "How kind of you to join us."

Doors glared at him. "Snape, you've got five seconds to explain yourself before I aerate your entrails," she said, her voice quiet and terrible. Harry shivered; never had he heard a sound so full of loathing, and his already quaking stomach didn't really want to see what his aunt was going to do to the Potions master.

Snape's eyes glittered strangely. "Would you really?" he asked, and for some odd reason Harry felt his heart drop within his chest--there was something new in Snape's voice, something that he feared even worse than the man's insanity.

Doors rolled her eyes, a momentary hint of her normal self returning. "No, Snape, I'm just going to let you off my nephew and go out for a cup of tea," she snorted. "Really, use whatever you've got for a brain. As if we hadn't figured out what you were after ages ago."

To Harry's immense surprise, Snape's eyebrows raised and he let out a short, harsh laugh. "_Did_ you now? Are you sure?" 

Doors advanced on him, lazily twirling the sword in her hand. Tendrils of her wispy hair fluttered as she moved, making her look near as mad as he. "As I said, Snape, Harry's not stupid and neither am I. He told me about your little adventure with the Mirror of Erised, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out the rest of it." 

Her voice was casual, but there was a steely note in it that Harry had rarely heard. He shifted uncomfortably against the wall, still very aware of the knife at his throat, and swallowed an urge to just kick Snape in the shin and run for it.

It was a good thing he didn't try, because at these words Snape twitched violently, the knife in his hand jerking dangerously. The hand grasping Harry's collar pulled him from the wall, and a moment later he found himself standing with Snape behind him, the blade still holding him prisoner and Snape's fingers digging into his collarbone.

"Lorna, I'm disappointed," he said softly. "Not at all up to your usual standard."

Doors raised her eyebrows. "Eh?" she said, cocking her head to one side. "And how's that?" Harry saw her hand wander toward her pocket, and knew she was just waiting for the right moment to spring.

Snape chuckled darkly. "You've only got half of it," he said, his knife sliding slowly along Harry's throat. "You couldn't have known the other half, for it's something I have trouble believing myself, but it's a rather crucial point." He paused.

"Harry's not the one I'm trying to kill."

Doors eyed him askance, silent for a moment. "Excuse me?" she said, surveying him keenly and looking as though she thought he'd gone cracked for sure. "You're _not_ trying to kill Harry?" She snorted. "And this would be why you've been after poisoning him since your whole adventure with the Mirror? Why you're standing there right now with a knife at his throat?"

Snape must have nodded, for a look of incredulity crossed Doors's face. "Oh, honestly," she snapped, throwing up her hands in disbelief. "Snape, if you had to go crazy you could have at least picked a more convenient time to do it. Harry's tired, I'm tired, and the last thing I really want to do right now is have to make a mess in the hallway." She crossed her arms, glaring at him so irritably that Harry wanted to laugh.

Snape was still a moment, his grip on Harry rigid. "Oh, Lorna, really now," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a caress. "You never did give me enough credit." And without the slightest warning Harry found himself flung aside, crashing into a heap of fallen stone as the Potions master lunged at his aunt.

For a moment Harry's vision fuzzed to black, a stabbing pain shooting through his head, and when it cleared his heart gave a horrible jolt.

"_Bugger_," he whispered.

Snape's dive had obviously caught Doors off her guard, for he wrenched the sword from her grasp with surprisingly little difficulty. His own knife took a wild slash at her, but Doors was not quite so out of it as all that--she caught his wrist before the blade reached her throat, and the two of them smashed into the remains of a pillar with a force that made Harry wince.

A spasm of pain flickered across Doors's face, but before she could retaliate or even recover properly Snape seized the collar of her robes and lifted her off her feet, in all likelihood intending to break her back across the pillar.

Doors lashed out with her foot and caught him in the knee, breaking free of his grasp and, to Harry's surprise, collapsing to the floor. Her face was whiter than paper, and contrary to her words she looked more ill than tired.

"Snape, you bloody idiot," she muttered, reaching for her wand.

Snape, however, was far from finished. He seized her hands before she had a chance to curse him, once again lifting her off her feet. He slammed her head hard into the wall, a sickening thud sounding through the still dimness as it made contact with the stone. 

"Lorna, _do you have any idea what I saw in that Mirror_?" he snarled, his voice a hissing whisper and his eyes flashing with the glare of utter madness. Before Doors could recover from her daze he answered his own question, spitting the words as though they were the vilest of curses. "Oh, yes, I saw Harry, I knew I would, but that's not what frightened me so." His hands found purchase on either side of her face, his eyes boring into hers. "Harry _was_ my son, but Lily wasn't his mother, Lorna, _you were._"

Ringing silence fell. As the meaning of this sank in on him Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, draining all his will with it. He stared at Snape in shock and not a little revulsion, but it was nothing to the look of horror on Doors's face, which had paled about five shades at his words.

Lorna stared at him, her eyes wide, for once in her life completely stunned. Harry didn't think she could have moved if she'd wanted to. He felt his stomach churn unpleasantly, and his first thought was, '_Geeze, and I thought he liked Petunia,' _followed immediately by, '_Oh, where is Dumbledore?'_

-_In the library_- returned the Voice. -_Along with most of the rest of your teachers_.-

'_What the hell is he doing there?!_' Harry fairly exploded. _'We need him down here!'_

-_That's where the real Voldemort was_.-

Harry groaned. '_Oh, well that's just _great,' he thought. Gingerly he got to his feet, praying Snape wouldn't notice, and felt around in his pocket for his wand. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do, but he knew he'd better do something or his aunt was going to lose the life it had taken Lupin so long to regain.

Doors had still made no response, and Snape seemed to be growing impatient. "Oh, for God's sake, Lorna, aren't you going to say anything?" he demanded. He brought the point of his knife under her chin, pushing her head back and forcing her to meet his eyes.

"Ew?" Doors offered, going faintly green. "What the hell do you want me to say, Snape--yippee? You can't just drop a bombshell like that on my head and expect me to snap out some witty comeback!" She was struggling to sit up, but the knife was making this somewhat difficult. Her face was drawn with weariness, and Harry had a feeling that all she really wanted to do right now was go curl up in her hammock and sleep for the next forty years or so.

Snape regarded her silently for a moment, his expression inscrutable. If he noticed how ill she looked he gave no sign, and Harry silently prayed that he wouldn't do anything stupid before Harry could get help. He took a tentative step towards the Hall, but Snape's voice stopped him short.

"One more move, Potter, and your aunt here is going to find herself missing her head."

Harry froze, mentally cursing just about everything. He certainly wasn't going to stand there while Snape pondered the best way to kill his aunt, but given the current situation he didn't know what else he _could_ do.

Fortunately, he didn't have very long to agonize over the situation. Doors, who was apparently fed up with the whole state of affairs as well, quite suddenly delivered Snape a bone-cracking bitch-slap that was easily strong enough to break his jaw. The blow would have knocked him to the ground, were he not there already, and from the look of her Doors was nowhere near finished.

"Snape, you great sodding prat," she snapped, her voice beginning to rasp from overuse and delivering a fairly forceful kick to his ribs, "for God's sake, get a life." She stumbled slightly, her equilibrium clearly shot to hell, but steadied herself and glared down at him. "So you saw something--" she winced "--gut-wrenchingly horrible in the Mirror. So what? The Marauders built that thing, you know, it's by no means infallible. And even if it was, is that really any reason to kill me?" She crossed her arms, looking for all the world like an irate kindergarten teacher berating a naughty five-year-old--or she would have, had she not looked in imminent danger of passing out. A trickle of blood was working its way through her hair and down her neck, making the deathly whiteness of her face even more pronounced.

"Get up, Snape," she said wearily. "I'm letting Dumbledore deal with you."

Snape rose slowly to his feet, Doors's wand pointed at his chest. His eyes glinted with a combination of bitter hate, madness, and something else Harry couldn't quite identify.

"You want me to go find someone?" Harry asked, taking a step toward Doors.

Lorna sighed. "Go get Dumbledore," she said, glancing at him. "Tell him his Potions master has lost his marbles--"

That was as far as she got. Before Harry could blink Snape lunged forward, his fingers closing on Doors's wand and snapping it in half. Before she could even try to aim a decent punch he caught her wrist in his hand, twisting savagely and eliciting a hideous crack. He probably would have tried to rip her arm off, but apparently Lorna had had enough.

"Okay, that's _it_," she snarled. "I think I've been more than reasonable enough, but you've crossed about every line I've ever drawn and I'm through playing fair." Tearing her hands free, she shoved him hard in the chest and sent him stumbling backward. "Harry, forget Dumbledore. Call Eoren."

It took a moment for Harry to register that she'd spoken to him. "Who?" he started to ask, but before he had fully articulated his question it was answered.

-_Oh, honestly Lorna. Sure, I thought you could handle this on your own._-

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin--in his fear he'd quite forgotten about the Neverstone and its odd Voice, though it had spoken to him but minutes before. "You mean that thing has a _name_?" he yelped, his surprise tearing the words from his mouth before he could stop them.

-_A'course I do_- the Voice responded, somewhat indignantly. -_Honestly, _mortals. _Give them a smidge of power and all of a sudden they think they're bloody invincible, and what's more they think they're the center of the universe._ _Why--_

Harry had a feeling that given the chance, the Voice would have carried on with this vein for at least another hour. Doors, however, had other plans.

"Eoren, for God's sake shut your gob," she said, rather crossly. "You want to give me a hand before I keel over and die?"

-_Naw, I'd rather watch you croak_-

"_Eoren_," Lorna said warningly.

-_Oh, fine._-

Harry snorted, but he scarcely heard this exchange--he was far too captivated with watching Snape. The moment he had heard the strange voice every ounce of color had drained out of his already pale face, and a look of such horror crawled across it that Harry thought _he_ was going to keel over and die. He knew he ought to be surprised that the Potions master could hear it at all, but at this point his capacity for surprise had all but disappeared.

"Lorna, you _wouldn't_," he fairly hissed, a hint of panic in his voice.

Doors looked annoyed. "Why not?" she snorted, flicking her bangs out of her eyes. "What is this--you want to kill me and it's just fine and dandy, but I try to do the same and all of a sudden it's wrong?"

-_Well, obviously._-

"Eoren, _shut up._"

-_Make me._-

"Grrrrr. I thought you said you were going to help me?"

-_Well, what do you want me to do to the stupid prat?_-

"Oh, I trust you'll think up something sufficiently nasty," Doors said, with a smirk that could only be described as evil.

-_Ooh, goody. Free reign._-

Harry stared, utterly bewildered. "What the--?" he started, then stopped. "Lorna, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't I destroy the Neverstone?"

Doors chuckled wearily. "Harry, honey, it would take a sight more than an explosion to wreck that thing," she said.

"Yes, but it won't take much at all for _it_ to destroy _us_," Snape snarled, the unease in his voice growing.

"Oh, stuff it, Snape, it'll do nothing of the sort," Doors said, sounding more annoyed than ever. "Wait, I take that back--it certainly might do something nasty to _you._ In fact, I'm rather hoping it will."

She closed her eyes and swayed slightly, and Harry started to wonder just what in hell was wrong with her--she'd looked a wreck long before Snape decided to use her head for a Quaffle, and he had a nasty suspicion it was more than just weariness that made her stumble. Without thinking he took a step forward and laid a hand on her arm, but recoiled almost at once--even through her robes, her arm was colder than ice, and whatever frost had settled on her skin seemed to chill the very air around her.

"What the--" he started, but she cut him off.

"Nice, no?" she said. "Lorna Doors, human ice cube." Her eyes stayed trained on Snape, who was still looking rather panicked and not at all as though he were registering anything around him. "If you'll wait just a moment, Harry, you'll soon understand."

Harry privately doubted this, but knew better than to say so--something was profoundly wrong with his aunt, of that he was certain, but at this point he wasn't quite sure that they hadn't all gone off their onions.

Doors reached out and took Snape's hand in hers, flipping it over and scrutinizing his palm closely. Clearly she wasn't going to just stand around and wait for the Neverstone to get its act together and smite Snape with some horrible curse, but Harry had to wonder just what she was doing.

"Ooo, not good," she said, shaking her head. "I've never been one for Divination, but you've got the shortest life line I've ever seen. In fact, it seems to run out right about.....now."

Snape jumped as though she'd burned him and tried to draw his hand away, but Doors's fingers closed on his like a vice. A glimmer of horror had risen to join the madness in his eyes, and Harry got the distinct impression that he rather wanted to be bolting in the opposite direction right now.

"You know, Snape," Doors said conversationally, her grip turning his hand purple as the blood backed up in his veins, "you didn't really have to waste all that energy trying to kill me."

"No?" he said, in the voice of someone who answers only out of habit. He looked like he wanted to give Doors a good shove, anything to get her off his hand, but was too afraid to try. He'd gone from marauder to marauded in an astoundingly short period of time, and Harry still for the life of him couldn't figure out why. He took a step backward.

"No," Doors said, matching his retreat. Harry couldn't see her face, but he would bet her eyes were glinting with that horribly creepy light he knew he himself had inherited. "Snape, how much do you know about the Silversleeves potion?" she asked, her voice quiet and still oddly like that of a game show host.

Whatever Snape had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that--the question was odd enough to shake him from his horrified daze, and he stared at her as though she'd gone mad. "What?" he demanded, in a tone much more like his usual sneer.

"You heard me," Doors said, her fingers closing tighter on his and making something crack nastily. "What do you know about the Silversleeves potion?"

Snape winced slightly, still looking at her as though she'd sprouted an extra head. "Well, done correctly it restores a person to their state of existence prior to death," he said, clearly wondering just where this was headed. His face, which had paled to the hue of old porridge, was damp with sweat, and Harry saw his eyes dart to the knife he'd dropped on the flagstone floor.

"Exactly," Doors said, sounding as pleased as though he'd just answered a question correctly in class. "Remus used the potion to bring me back, and while he did manage to modify it so I would no longer need that cursed cane, that was the only alteration he made. Think about that for just a minute."

From the look of him Snape was thinking about it, and he was apparently coming up with as big a blank as Harry was. He tried once more to pull away from her, but Doors grabbed his other hand and crushed it in hers. "No, no, you've got to answer this," she said softly. "You say I missed a crucial point, but evidently you did as well."

Snape continued to stare at her, utterly bewildered and more uneasy than ever, and for once in his life Harry knew how he felt--he had no idea what his aunt was going on about, and he had a nasty suspicion that Snape wasn't the only lunatic in the corridor.

"Harry, stop looking at me like that," Doors snapped, not turning around. "I'm not mad."

-_Bets?_-

"You stay out of this, Eoren, and for God's sake would you hurry it up already?"

-_Oh, bite me. I'm hurrying already._-

Doors had apparently decided Snape was hopeless, for she let out a weary sigh. "Snape, you moron," she said, her voice tired and hoarse. "You said it yourself--the Silversleeves potion returns a person exactly as they were at the hour of their death. And by then if Voldemort hadn't killed me, something...else...would have."

Slow, horrible comprehension dawned on Snape's face, and as it did Harry felt suddenly as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. A wave of horror, pity, and absolute terror washed over him, and he had to fight to keep from hitting himself.

How could he have been so stupid? Lupin had said at the very start of all this that the potion returned you as you had been--how had he not seen it? His aunt _had_ died at the hands of Voldemort, but even if she hadn't she wouldn't have lived long...with a sickening dismay he realized just why she looked so ill, and why she had _been_ looking ill since this whole mess began, and before he could restrain himself he had blurted out in a tremulous whisper,

"Lorna, you--you're not dying..._now_...are you?"

Doors looked at him, and now he recognized the red in her eyes for what it was. They seemed fairly to burn in the white of her face, the blood that trickled down her neck standing out a harsh and startling counterpoint. "Right on, Agatha Christie," she said quietly.

Harry felt the little strength that remained in his knees slowly ebb away, but before he could even begin to process the horrible shock that had descended on him his reverie was broken, rather rudely, by Snape.

"Good God," he said, a look of revulsion crossing his face as he tried once more to extricate his hands from Doors's. "Lorna, you mean to tell me you've been dying of black sickness since that cursed werewolf brought you back?" His mouth curled into its characteristic sneer. "Well, you've certainly been taking your sweet time, haven't you? Honestly, if you had to come back at all you could have at least had the graciousness to kick off after a decent interval, instead of forcing us all into this nightmare."

Had Harry not been so numb with shock he probably would have tackled Snape for that, but as it turned out that wasn't necessary--for Doors, oddly enough, was smiling.

"You think _this_ is a nightmare?" she asked, something in her voice sounding so wicked that Harry shuddered through his stunned stupor. Her smile turned suddenly evil. "I'll give you a nightmare, Snape, one that'll make this fiasco look like a trip to wizarding Disneyland."

In a movement quicker than sight she released his hands and pressed her fingers to his temples. Snape jerked backward but Doors matched his step, the red in her eyes welling up and spilling over in a ghastly mockery of a tear. Without thinking Harry leaped forward, not knowing what she was going to do but realizing it must be terrible, but before he could reach her her eyes flared and her fingers tightened, and in a hissing whisper she spoke the word that would haunt Harry to his dying day: "_Moarte._"

For a moment nothing happened, and as Harry caught his aunt's arms and pulled her away from Snape he thought only of how very cold she was. However, no sooner had he done so then there came an extremely sickening squishing noise, and a moment later Snape stumbled and nearly fell to the ground.

Harry steadied Doors and ventured a look at the Potions master, and immediately wished he hadn't--he didn't think he'd seen anyone look so horrible since the Phantoms attacked Voldemort the year before. Snape's face had gone an appalling shade of ashy grey, and his eyes were wide with a horror that would have been hilarious, were it not so terribly genuine.

"What the hell did you do to me?" he demanded, clutching his left wrist and staggering. A fine mist of sweat was already gathering at his temples, though whether it was the result of nervousness or something worse, Harry didn't know.

Lorna grinned sickly, a second bloody tear working its way down her pallid face. "Merry Christmas, Snape," she whispered softly. "For once you got what you deserve."

What little color remained in Snape's face promptly disappeared, and a look of dreadful, disbelieving comprehension crawled across it. His eyes widened until they looked like a pair of black Sickles, and he made a small, strangled sputter of terror.

And so there they were: Snape, standing stunned amid the wrack and ruin of the corridor, staring in horror at Doors, who probably would have collapsed by now were Harry not holding her up. Harry himself was in a state somewhere between shock and a coma, and the dropping of this new bombshell only served to drive him deeper in. 

Lord only knows how things would have fallen out from here, but before any of them could fully process the implications of the whole mess their stupor was fortunately broken by none other than Lupin, who came skidding into the corridor and halted on sight of the three.

"Harry," he said, sounding relieved. "Dumbledore's looking for you, he's trying to get everyone into the library--"

He stopped abruptly, apparently taking in the full strangeness of the scene. Harry glanced at him and saw that his eyes were still creepily yellow and his teeth still disturbingly pointed, but the half-crazed look he'd worn while attempting to dismember Pettigrew had mercifully vanished. His expression darkened, and Harry inwardly winced--he had a feeling the man's werewolf nature was still far nearer the surface than was particularly safe, and he didn't really want to see anybody get ripped to pieces.

"Does somebody want to explain to me just what's going on here?" he asked, his voice hardening. His eyes flicked toward Snape, then to the knife at his feet, then to Harry, who still had a rivulet of blood trickling down his neck and soaking the fabric of his dress robes. Doors had her hand pressed over his wound, but given her current condition he doubted she was doing much good.

Lupin stood still, seemingly torn between anger and unease. Judging from his expression he clearly thought this whole situation was Snape's fault, but he seemed loath to attack first and ask questions later. "Harry, you're bleeding," he said, eying the spreading crimson stain on Harry's robes with concern. Almost absently he sent a binding curse at Snape, pinning him where he was and threatening to topple him over if he moved. He touched his wand to Harry's neck, and a sudden warmth spread through his whole shoulder. He shivered at the contrast it made with his aunt's coldness.

"What happened here?" Lupin asked again, wiping the blood from his wand. He turned Harry's face toward him, apparently checking for some sign of a head injury. Evidently satisfied that there were none, he pulled out a handkerchief and started wiping Harry's throat, ignoring Snape, who was gawking at him like he'd gone mad. No one answered him, but he didn't seem to expect them to. He was muttering something about giving Madam Pomfrey a coronary when he noticed Doors for the first time and nearly threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Lorna, how did I know you'd be around here?" he asked, discarding his bloody handkerchief and pulling a second from his pocket. The light was so dim and Lupin so distracted that he didn't seem to notice how ill Doors looked.

He finished cleaning Harry's neck and flicked his wand at Snape, dragging on his binds and pulling him forward. "Come on, you three," he said grimly, shooting a nasty look at Snape and narrowing his yellow eyes. "Dumbledore's going to want an explan--

He stopped. In the sudden silence Harry could practically hear the blood draining from his face, as his eyes widened and a look of sudden and terrible comprehension crossed it. He looked like a man stricken, and for a moment it confused the hell out of Harry, until Doors's icy hand clamped on his arm. He glanced at her and saw her face illuminated by the faint light of Lupin's wand, her bloody tears glinting dully and standing out a ghastly counterpoint to her chalk-white face.

"Hey, Remus," she said, her head falling against Harry's shoulder and her eyes oddly glazed. "How's it going?"

Lupin stared at her, his expression a mixture of shock and horror. He looked as though someone had just walked by and stabbed him in the stomach, and Harry winced inwardly--he didn't think he'd ever seen anyone look so as though their heart had been ripped out and laid on a plate before them.

"Lorna?" Lupin whispered, his voice quiet and horrified. He gazed at her for several moments in silence, but she made no response--only returned his gaze with weary, glassy green eyes. Harry too stood still, his shoulders aching and head unsteady with weariness.

In a movement swifter than Harry's tired eyes could discern Lupin strode forward, disengaging Doors's arms from her nephew's neck. To Harry's surprise he pulled her close, holding her in an almost brotherly embrace, tangling his hands in her hair and resting his chin on the top of her head.

"God, Lorna, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice filled with something deeper than despair. His eyes were closed, as though he were trying desperately to wish himself somewhere else. Doors made no response, but Harry had a feeling Lupin understood her anyway.

His yellow eyes opened a moment later and flicked to Harry, who still felt on the verge of collapse himself. "Harry, can you walk?" he asked quietly.

Harry nodded silently, and without waiting for further confirmation Lupin lifted Doors off her feet and started back the way he had come. Harry started after him, but had only taken a few steps before he paused uncertainly. He had a vague feeling that it wouldn't exactly be politic to leave Snape frozen in place, but he had absolutely no idea how to undo Lupin's curse, and in any case freeing a man who had just received the Black Sickness would probably be one of the stupidest things he could do.

He stood a moment, then shrugged. "Whatever," he muttered, halfheartedly pointing his wand at the Potions Master. "_Accio_ Snape."

He hadn't expected the spell to work, but Snape came whizzing obediently after him, and Harry, with a weary shake of his head, started after Lupin and his aunt once more.

The two were headed up the once-familiar corridor to the library, now strewn with rubble and frozen as the snow outside. Harry's entire body ached as though he'd been beaten (which wasn't far from the case), but deep inside him there was a strange, dull, numbing ache that seemed to intensify as he shivered. The pain in his head had returned with a vengeance, and his vision blurred fitfully as his feet led him blindly onward.

They seemed to wander for hours, but just when Harry thought he could go no further he became aware of the great library doors standing before him, half wrenched off their hinges and coated in a fine layer of dust. The light was dim and murky, but a cheerful glow of fire could be seen through the cracks and the sound of voices, both worried and relieved, floated out to him.

Harry let out a sigh that seemed to come from his very toes, slowing as Lupin's dim outline paused ahead of him. He was so weary that the roof could have collapsed on him and he'd scarcely have noticed, but somewhere beneath his fatigue there floated a half-imagined unease that kept him from giving up and conking out completely. Silently he shook himself, his mind on nothing beyond a warm bed, but before he could even fully cohere his thoughts he found himself slamming hard into Lupin's back.

The man had stopped dead, and Harry could feel the tension coming off of him in waves. His yellow eyes searched the stone above him, before murmuring something Harry's tired ears could scarcely discern:

"Oh, that's not good."

For a moment Harry stumbled, confused and not at all wanting to know just what Lupin meant by that, but he didn't wonder for long. Snape slammed to a halt behind him, and an instant later a terrible, searing, icily brilliant light shot through the corridor, its horrible brightness stabbing into Harry's head and making him cry out in pain. Before he realized what he was doing he clapped his hands to his head and staggered, the agony nearly enough to drive him to his knees as a strange multitude of fell voices swirled around him.

He felt a sharp blow as Lupin's arm crashed into his chest, dragging him backward and pulling him behind one of the fallen timbers. Dimly he registered his aunt's eyes flaring, wide with a terror he was too weary to properly feel himself. Clawing the hair from her face, she threw her arm around Harry's neck and dragged him after her, staring nearly stricken into the radiance that had all but sealed Harry's own eyes shut.

"Eoren, _NO_!" she screamed, choking as a sudden stream of black blood drowned her words in a gurgling flood. Her white, frozen hand gripped Harry's arm like a band of iron, pulling him against her cold form as a spasm of coughing racked it. The light only grew more dazzling in response, a deep and almost impossible blackness swirling at its center, and the murmuring voices seemed to mock her plea, rising in a horrible screeching cadence that seemed to stab Harry's ears.

A second hand closed on his other arm, fingers digging through his robes with enough force to draw blood. Harry whirled to find it belonged to Snape, outlined hideously against the sickening brilliance. How he had broken his paralysis, Harry didn't know, but his eyes were flashing with a ghastly, menacing madness, their corners already suffused with blood that threatened to spill over at any moment. He said not a word, only grinned sickeningly and tugged with all his might on Harry's shoulder, and a moment later the two of them went crashing to the flagstone floor.

_Eoren, HELP ME, _he thought desperately, scarcely aware of his own cogitations. He could still feel Doors's hand clamped on his shoulder, colder than marble and twice as hard, but Snape's other hand had found purchase on his throat, and his rational thinking spiraled swiftly downward from there.

-_But I AM helping_- Eoren sounded almost petulant. -_Lorna wanted a distraction and sure, I've brought one. Aren't the Phantoms grand enough for you?_-

Harry would have choked, were he not doing so already. A vague but heavy terror dropped like a stone into his stomach, his vision blurring white as Snape's fingers dug into his throat with the strength of a vice. 

The last thing he was aware of, as his dimming consciousness ebbed for the fourth time that day, was the feeling of Snape's hand as it was torn from his throat by someone far stronger than either of them. A terrible, agonized shrieking filled his ears, mingling with a malevolent laughter that made him shiver as he was pulled toward the door once more. It didn't last long--the laughter very swiftly melted into cries nearly identical to Snape's, and the light, which still managed to sear into Harry's misty eyes, flared brighter than ever before winking out with the suddenness of an extinguished torch.

And blackness fell, both in his head and around it.

****(I was going to leave you all there, but I'll not be that mean ^_^)****

Warmth. Warmth and softness, the feeling of a fat pillow beneath his head. Harry turned, snuggling deeper into the cosset of blankets that surrounded him, silently willing himself to stay asleep just a little longer. His head ached faintly, and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was have to face a wedding full of Lockharts....

Harry's eyes shot open, his memory returning with a nauseating jolt. He sat swiftly upright, clutching the blankets and staring wildly around--only to be incredibly confused by what he saw.

At first glance he seemed to be in the hospital wing, but the hospital wing wasn't this big. Row after row of beds lined the dim, lofty room, draped in what had to be every sheet and blanket in all of Hogwarts. In every one there lay a student or parent; most were sleeping, but a few were awake and apparently calm.

A faint hum of conversation filtered through the still, warm air, the voices soft and filled with a welcome tranquility that soothed Harry's jangled nerves. Early evening sunlight was filtering in from the far windows, falling across the beds and squashy armchairs that littered the floor. It appeared they were in the library, though the shelves were in such a disastrous state of disorder that Madam Pince would have fallen down twitching at the sight of it.

Realizing he was in no imminent danger, Harry felt for his glasses and slid them on--someone had thought to mend them, for which he was grateful as he glanced around the room.

The bed to his left was occupied by Fred Weasley, his freckled face still unusually pale. He was asleep, snoring slightly and occasionally kicking George, who lay across the foot of the mattress. Beyond them was Ron, his mouth open and foot dangling off the edge, and still further down lay Hermione, over whom Malfoy seemed to be standing a rather twitchy vigil, constantly searching for some sign of Dudley. The molten gold of the sunlight shimmered over all of them, lighting the world to an almost ethereal glow and seeming to rest as a silent blessing on the battered and weary of Hogwarts.

Harry rubbed his head and turned to his right, only to find an equally long line of beds stretched in that direction. Directly beside him was Doors, her face clean and not half as ghostly, sound asleep in a nest of flannel. Lupin had apparently been sitting with her, but now he too was asleep, his arm around her shoulders and her head rested against his chest. Sirius lay beyond them, sprawled across his bed and snoring far louder than Fred, a fact which drew him several dirty looks from Madam Pomfrey.

Harry lay back against his pillows, confused. Obviously they were all alive, but how long he'd been asleep and how on Earth he had gotten here were as much a mystery to him as Dudley's real weight. His mind tried to whirl with questions and wonderings, but he was so tired that it didn't get very far.

"Awake at last, are we?"

He turned, and found himself gazing into the twinkling blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster was smiling, if somewhat wearily, and Harry felt his last worries melt away.

"W-What happened?" he asked, his question interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn.

It might have been his imagination, but Dumbledore's smile seemed to falter a bit. "That, my dear boy, is a far more involved question than you could possibly realized, and one which may not be answered until you are strong enough to deal with it."

Harry started to protest, but Dumbledore held up a hand. "Sleep, Harry," he said. "You are safe now, and your question shall be answered in due time. Rest assured that no lasting harm has befallen your friends." He removed Harry's glasses and set them on the rickety table beside his bed. "Sleep," he repeated, laying a hand on Harry's forehead. And sleep he did, deeply and sweetly, untroubled by dreams of any kind but filled with a security he had not felt since he first came to Hogwarts. The sun was warm on his face, and for now, if only for now, his world was at peace.

::authoress drops dead:: Okay, that wasn't too bad, was it? Harry's explanation comes in the next chapter, which may or may not be the last, depending on how long it gets. Do be a dear and review; it would just make my day. ^_^


	11. Part Eleven (subtitled: Explanations and...

Attention: This is my last post on FanFiction.Net--as of now, my account is basically defunct, and you'll see no more from me here. Should you for some unknown reason wish to keep up with my writing, I suggest you go to www.schnoogle.com, where I shall archive all future stories, or visit my website at www.angelfire.com/geek/mynaevaerland. That said, do continue onward. ^_^

****

Explanations and Other Scary Things

Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows, casting brilliant flashes of color over the floor and beds and mess of the library. It was slanting from the east this time, only a few rays managing to peep over the horizon at this early hour. The air was still, calm, and filled with a welcome peace that seemed to muffle the voices of the few who were more or less awake.

Harry turned and groaned, not wanting to leave the comfort of his fuzzy dream-realm. The blankets around him were soft and wonderfully warm, the pillows beneath his head thick and fat, and if whoever was snoring didn't shut up soon he was going to take one of them and pummel the unfortunate sod to death.

"Will somebody elbow him already? Honestly, that's just embarrassing."

Sirius's voice floated through Harry's nest of blankets, sounding dim and furry as though he were on the other side of a hill. Harry only burrowed deeper, trying without much success to crawl back into his lovely slumber.

"Well, you're not much of one to talk, Padfoot," Lupin said, his remark coming from Harry's right. "Really, you were giving us quite the serenade last night."

"Oh, shut up, Moony. I would've thought you and Lorna would have enjoyed some mood music."

There came a thud as something large and soft flew over Harry's bed and made contact with something on the other side, followed by a very un-Sirius-like yelp and a crash. Harry groaned, realizing sleep was beyond his grasp, and flinging the covers over his head he shot Sirius a glare frigid enough to turn him to stone where he sat. The effect was somewhat compromised, however, by the fact that as soon as he caught sight of his godfather (who sat amid a snowstorm of swirling goose down) he burst out laughing, earning him a pillow of his own from Lupin.

"Really, Harry," Lupin admonished. "Do you want to wake everyone else up?"

Harry snorted and fell back against his pillows, rubbing his forehead. "I didn't want to wake up myself," he muttered blearily. "What's going on?"

"Not much," responded Sirius, hauling himself back up onto his bed. He was still coated in goose down, but didn't seem to mind it much. "Waiting for Dumbledore. He said he was going to...explain a few things."

His eyes traveled to the bed beyond Harry as he spoke. Harry followed his gaze and discovered it was occupied by Doors, still sound asleep and looking about twelve years old. Her face was a bit paler than usual, but other than that she looked suspiciously...fine. Lupin was sitting near her feet, his eyes still faintly yellow.

"Is she--okay?" he asked.

"Strangely enough, yes," said Lupin, his gaze flickering to the small woman. "That's part of what Dumbledore said he would explain." He fell silent, his expression clearly saying he had something of an idea of his own.

Harry stared at his aunt. Even after all they'd gone through she still somehow managed to retain her odd aura of tranquility, a sense of calm within cheerful chaos. Watching her gave him a feeling of security, a kind of subconscious knowledge that even in her sleep she had everything under control. "Somehow I should have known she'd find some way around dying again," he said, more to himself than anyone.

"She's just like James that way," Lupin said, sounding slightly wistful. "They were the two most stubborn people you'd ever seen. No wonder they made Snape's life such a living nightmare." He raised his eyes to Harry's, his gaze disconcertingly piercing. "What on _earth _was he trying to do to you in that corridor, Harry? I've been puzzling over it ever since I woke up, and I still can't understand what could have made him snap like that. I mean, he _was _trying to kill you, wasn't he?" he added, seeing the look on Harry's face.

Harry was mercifully spared the torment of trying to answer this unfortunate query--before he could even begin to think up a reply, a voice cut in and made one for him.

"I fear we may know the answer all too soon."

All three of them turned, their eyes meeting with the tall, green-robed visage of Albus Dumbledore. He wore no cheerful smile, and the eyes behind his sparkling half-moon glasses were grave.

For a moment there was a rather startled pause. "What do you mean?" Harry asked, doubt gnawing at him. "Did you get anything out of Snape?" Even as he asked the question he inwardly winced; for some reason he wanted the truth of Snape's motivations kept secret.

Dumbledore's eyes met his, and when he spoke his tone was somber. "Harry, Professor Snape is dead," he said quietly. "And so too would you and your aunt be, if he had had his way."

All three of them stared at him, speechless. Harry fought a mental stagger, unable to comprehend the Headmaster's words--Snape was _dead?_ Much as he hated the Potions Master, Harry had never seriously wished him dead, and to suddenly find out he was was a bit more of a shock than Harry was ready to deal with just yet. He sat silent for a minute, unable to comprehend it, but his train of thought was interrupted by Lupin.

"How?" he asked, aghast. Harry saw him glance at Doors, who was still sound asleep, and did not quite know what to think when the Defense professor edged closer to her.

"Lorna," Dumbledore responded, something like sorrow in his voice. He hesitated a moment, as though loath to speak his next words aloud. "She gave him the Black Sickness."

Lupin's eyes snapped up, and both he and Sirius stared at Dumbledore, appalled. Harry had known this all along, but his tired brain had been too overwhelmed to fully grasp the implications of his aunt's hissed curse. He watched Dumbledore curiously, vague unease mounting in the back of his mind.

"You've got to be kidding," Sirius said hoarsely, finding his voice at last. He was looking rather pale. "Can someone even _do_ that? I mean, I don't know very much about Black Sickness, but from what I understood it was an inherited disease, not something contagious." His eyes traveled to Doors, regarding her with somewhat horrified wonder. In her sleep she looked innocent, peaceful, and not at all like someone who would willingly pass on a horribly deadly illness.

Dumbledore's reply was grim. "She can and she did," he said quietly, folding his hands before him. "Whether or not she did it on purpose remains to be seen. Either way, in doing so she saved her own life." Lupin looked at him quizzically, and Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"Little is known about the Black Sickness," he said, sitting on the bed beside Lupin. "I'm afraid it was rather taken for granted that the disease was non-transmittable, a theory which has quite obviously been proven wrong. Nobody had ever passed it on before Lorna gave it to Severus, and so the consequences of such an action remained a mystery. Until now, of course."

Harry swallowed and unconsciously settled deeper into his nest of blankets. "What are you saying?" he asked, "That Doors gave Snape the Black Sickness and got rid of it herself?"

"Exactly," Dumbledore said softly. "I cannot believe she would do such a thing on purpose, but something she did passed it on." His eyes traveled to Harry as he said this, their glance deep and penetrating.

Harry said nothing, but he remembered Doors's words in the corridor. _Merry Christmas, Snape_, she had whispered softly. _For once you got what you deserve. _Clearly she had known what she was doing...hadn't she?

"So what's the problem?" he asked, anxious to change the subject. "I mean, I'm not saying I'm glad Snape's dead or anything, but if Doors just sort of gave it to him and didn't mean it..." He trailed off, his words failing under the piercing blue gaze of the Headmaster. Fear formed a knot in his stomach, and he waited with growing dread for Dumbledore to speak the truth.

The Headmaster sat silent for a long moment. When at last he spoke, it was with a quiet sort of finality. "Harry, Lorna may have given Professor Snape the Black Sickness, but that's not what killed him." He folded his hands inside his sleeves, something new in his expression that Harry didn't like at all. "And because of this our trouble is by no means over."

His gaze held Harry's levelly, giving him an uncomfortable feeling that the word 'our' really meant 'your'. Could there be just a hint of disquiet in those startlingly blue eyes? Never, in all his time at Hogwarts, had Harry seen anything even remotely close to unease in Dumbledore's keen glance, and the fact that he did now sent a faint, inexplicable chill down his spine. He knew he was expected to respond to this, but his vocal chords seemed to have been temporarily deprived of their function, and it was Lupin who broke the silence.

"What did?" he asked, though Harry had no doubt he had drawn his own conclusions already. "What killed him?"

Dumbledore peered inscrutably at him over the rims of his spectacles, the strange glimmer of almost-unease seeming to grow momentarily brighter. "The Phantoms," he said quietly, and with those two simple words effectively destroyed any tentative hopes Harry might have had for peace and normalcy.

A small silence followed this, broken only by the soft, whispered breathing of hundreds of sleepers and the faint clinking that heralded Madam Pomfrey's activities. Nobody quite knew what to say, though Harry felt a shiver pass through him--he wouldn't wish such a death on Voldemort, let alone Snape. He could feel Dumbledore's eyes on him, but his own stayed glued to the blankets of his bed.

It was Sirius who spoke first. "Look, I don't mean to sound like a horrid unfeeling git, but what does it matter what killed Snape? The point is he's dead, and he's going to stay dead, and can't we talk about something else, this subject is giving me the willies?"

"Oh, and that's not sounding like an unfeeling git?" Lupin put in. Dumbledore sighed.

"That would bring me to the ultimate problem," he said, pausing as Doors shifted in her sleep and muttered something about chickens. "Most unfortunately, Fate seems to have conspired against us in plotting Severus's demise. You see, Lorna gave him the Black Sickness before the Phantoms killed him, and as a result..." He paused, his expression somewhat distant. "As a result, the Phantoms themselves were infected with the disease. Black Sickness does not discriminate--indeed, it was once a part of the Phantoms themselves--and this reuniting of the two effected the destruction of both."

Silence. Harry stared at him, not certain he understood. "So...the Phantoms are _gone_?" he asked. Dumbledore nodded gravely. "Then what's the problem? I mean, isn't that a good thing?" His head was starting to feel somewhat spinny again, and he wondered why, if everything was as the Headmaster said, he didn't seem gladder of it.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Harry, when the Phantoms take a soul, They do not destroy it as Dementors do. Instead They trap it in their own special purgatory, a sort of parallel world reserved for the torment of their prey. It is a realm guarded and maintained by Them, and the moment They vanished, so did any guardianship They might have had." He noticed Harry's blank stare. "In other words, those They took were no longer bound in limbo, and have now been freed and granted mortal form." He paused. "Which means that every Snape, every Malfoy--every evil thing the Earth Sidhe ever gave the Phantoms--is now loose upon the world."

Yet another silence. Harry couldn't tell whether the others were sitting in disbelief or horror, but he himself was finding this a bit hard to comprehend. He remembered Doors's words about the Snapes, that they had borrowed much from the Phantoms in order to ensure their place at the head of magic's evil dynasty, and the thought of the lot of them free to work their mischief once more was enough to make him shiver. 

He felt like he ought to say something--anything--but before he could even begin to summon a suitable response, Doors threw the blankets off her head and shot Dumbledore what could only be described as a pained glance.

"Oh, for God's sake, you've GOT to be kidding," she said crossly, blowing a wisp of frizz from her face. She crossed her arms, looking so irritated that Harry felt his unease abate slightly. "You mean to tell me all my work's been wasted by those damn Phantoms?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I wish I were," he said. "As it is, you are now awake, and I shall leave you to your own explanations." He stood, his expression a trifle less grave. "I believe Madam Pomfrey could use some assistance, if Mr. Creevey's yelps are any indication. Call me if you need me."

Harry turned to Doors as the Headmaster departed, more confused than ever. "You want to explain that?" he asked, not overly certain he wanted to hear it if she did.

Doors groaned. "Not really," she said, rubbing her forehead. "Look, I'm just going to get right to the point. Harry, you know how I told you that the only reason Snape lived was because somebody got to him who believed in second chances?" Harry nodded. "Well, what I didn't tell you was that someone was me. No, don't look at me like that--cripes, I was only five, and if things had worked out differently you might have had to do the same thing for Malfoy." She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, her long fingers tangling in her hair. "Remus, you know a part of this tale, and I'll wager Sirius has guessed a bit himself, but as none of you knows the whole thing I'm just going to begin at the beginning." She settled herself back against her pillows, looking smaller than ever but still innately Professor Doors, and as Harry made himself comfortable she launched on a tale that seemed oddly familiar--as it ought to have, since he'd been involved in a large portion of it himself.

"You two know my mother was killed when I was very young--two months shy of five," she said, looking at Lupin and Sirius, "and that I was sent to live with James and our father. I would have been perfectly content to live a normal little witch's life, but most unfortunately I had a few--friends--who required certain services of me." 

She fell silent a moment. "I actually called Them that," she mused softly, wonderingly. "Friends. Had I known then what They were, I would have run as fast as I could in the other direction, but being five I just accepted Them as a natural part of the magical world. Which was probably the stupidest mistake I ever made in my life."

She sneezed violently, blowing her nose on the hem of Lupin's sleeve. It was obvious she did not at all want to speak of these things, and without thinking Harry scrambled over to her bed and sat beside Sirius.

"Oi, thanks, honey," she said, gladly taking his proffered handkerchief. "Anyway, to make a long story short I was the one who let the Phantoms into people's houses, opening the Doors so that They might wreak what They considered vengeance. Really, They did Voldemort far more of a disservice than any Aurors--killed off hundreds of what would have been his loyal subjects, all because of broken pacts. Both the Snapes and the Malfoys had made deals with Them, bargaining for wealth and power and not realizing that a debt must always be paid. When the time came both families thought they could defy Them, thought they were invincible enough to resist the power of the Phantoms. Fools." Doors's voice was softer, still hoarse from the previous day's madness and holding a faint tinge of sadness that seemed to dampen the very air.

"The Phantoms knew they intended to fight, but instead of giving them an opportunity for combat They decided to void the contract and kill them all unawares. And for that They needed Sidhe children." She sighed, her long fingers picking at the raveled threads of one of her blankets. Harry looked at her sharply.

"Oh, no, I wasn't the only one," she said, in response to his look. "There were dozens of us, none knowing that we were aiding the worst evil ever to walk the earth. Out of all the families They took I dealt with only two, and believe me it was more than enough.

"The Malfoys were the first to go, a fact which strikes me as odd to this day--though they were far more overt, the Snapes were easily the eviler of the two clans. The Malfoys had bargained for far less power, but they were most public in their scorn of the Phantoms and they were the ones who went first. That would have been the end of the line, forever, but I couldn't bear the thought of Them killing all. I had seen young Lucius--four years old, just a year behind me at the time--when I let Them in, and I decided that They weren't going to have him. He was only a child, like me, and it wasn't his fault his family was the way they were. And so I hid him from Them, used whatever strange power the Sidhe have to keep him from Their eyes.

"I don't know how much he remembers of the night his family died, but it can't be much or he'd be locked up in St. Mungo's. I don't recall much of myself, though that's more because I decided to forget than anything else. I know their deaths weren't as horrible as the Snapes', though that's not saying a lot--the Snapes _were_ extremely messy, by anyone's standards."

Doors laughed softly. "Listen to me; sitting here recounting all this like it's nothing more than something out of the _Daily Prophet_. I guess that's all it is, now, though I wonder that I can say that." She sighed again, clearly searching for the right words. "I saved Snape, when the Phantoms came for his family--saved him and stole his memories of their deaths. I thought both he and Lucius deserved a second chance, that without the evil of their families' influences they would not walk the same path. For seven years afterwards I waited, wondering if I had done the right thing, and you can imagine my dismay when both of them arrived at Hogwarts and were promptly shuffled into Slytherin. I was wrong, very wrong in my decision to interfere, and yet for years I couldn't bring myself to fully regret what I had done--not until Voldemort had been overthrown, and my own world came crashing down around my ears."

Both Lupin and Sirius started at this, an expression of knowing sorrow creeping over both their faces, and Harry realized they were thinking of his parents' murder. Doors had never spoken to him of what she'd done after his father's death, but from what little he had learned last year, to say she hadn't taken it well would be the understatement of the century.

"I'll not go into all that followed James and Lily's passing--I know it wasn't pleasant for any of us, and some things are best left in the past. However, the next part of my tale must be told, for I am not the only person it involves." Doors's eyes flickered to Harry, who felt himself freeze to the spot.

"It was many years before I came to regret my decision, but regret it I did. Harry, when you were four, Snape--I don't know if he snapped or what, but for some reason he got it into his head to go to your aunt and uncle's and abduct you without leaving so much as a Memory Charm to keep it secret. He had been active among all the children of your generation for some time--he'd been visiting with Lucius, I know, and old Mrs. Longbottom had him out terrifying Neville. He wasn't the only one, though--I'd been wandering among you for the past year, doing what I could to undo the damage of Phantoms and Voldemort alike." Her spidery hand reached out and traced a line behind Harry's ear, running along a thin, fine scar he'd had almost as long as he could remember.

"You've got a pair of those, you know," Doors said, a faint smile flitting over her features. "You and nearly everyone in your year. Hermione fainted, when I went to give them to her, and I'll wager poor Neville has nightmares about it yet. But you--" her eyes flashed with something akin to family pride "--you took one look at my knife and said, 'Pretty.' Pretty...you can't imagine the weight that took off my shoulders; I had been dreading the thought of bringing any fear or pain to my brother's son." Her smile was calm and slightly crooked, an impish yet almost motherly smirk. Her eyes held Harry's, something indefinable passing through them and into him, and he felt a cascade of comfortable warmth wash over him. He knew he ought to say something, that she had paused to allow him some kind of response, but he was so comfortable and almost sleepy that all he could muster was a puzzled,

"Knife?"

To his surprise all three of the adults chuckled, and Lupin reached for the pile of torn dress robes that lay at the foot of Doors's bed. He extracted from it a long, slender blade, unsheathed and glittering brilliant silver in the early morning sunshine. Not a sign of tarnish or blemish was to be seen upon it, either on the blade or hilt, which was carved about with vines and set with emerald leaves. The blade itself was etched with a very faint tracery of trees, winding and climbing their way from point to hilt. It was beautiful, and so obviously magical that Harry found himself unable to draw his eyes from it.

Doors took it from Lupin, holding it before her with the ease of someone quite accustomed to its weight and feel. Her eyes lingered over the flash of its polish, a faint, almost unnoticeable smile playing about her mouth.

"This knife," she said softly. "Aisling, the Knife of Dream-Mist. This blade belongs to the Guardian of the Gate of Heaven--don't ask how I came by it, it's a _very_ long story. The point is, to be touched by this blade leaves one incapable of every truly turning to evil, no matter what the circumstances or even the person themself may wish. You have been marked by Aisling, as have nearly all your classmates--it was my form of retribution, you see; an attempt to create a generation Voldemort could never use. Wicked as any of you might seem, you are all good at heart, as was made quite clear to me yesterday."

Harry stared at her a moment, puzzled, until sudden understanding hit. "Malfoy?" he said, unable to suppress a wry smile.

"Malfoy," Doors agreed, her eyes shining. "He turned against his father when things came right down to it, to follow the only path he would ever be able to take. He'll never be any Gryffindor's best friend, but we never need fear his loyalties."

She sat quiet for a moment, leaving Harry to mull over this rather extraordinary piece of information.

"Anyhow," she continued, "as I was saying, Snape got it into his head to kidnap you just after I'd given you the marks. It's a damn good thing he waited, too, for I don't like to think what might have happened had he gotten to you first." Her eyes left Harry's, traveling back to the sword in her hand. She laid it on the bed, her mind clearly elsewhere. "See, like I said, Snape also had something of an interest in your generation, and while I've never figured out his intentions entirely, I know well enough what his plans were for you. Aisling has a mate, a sister-sword named Adachaidh, and that blade is as wicked as Aisling is good. That too may mark a human, but the mark of Adachaidh leads one irreversibly down the path of evil. The Snapes had held Adachaidh for centuries--it was one of the things they bargained the Phantoms for--but few of them held enough innate power to use it. Snape was the first in his family to be marked with the sword in generations, but marked he was, and that's what he wanted to do to you."

She broke off, her expression unaccustomedly bitter. "Idiot," she said. "He should have known that just because it had marked him didn't mean it would let him wield it. Had he actually tried to perform the ritual on you, it would have killed you both, and likely taken a sizeable portion of Wales with you.

"I'm not entirely certain what happened to Adachaidh--for all I know, it's still buried in the rubble of Snape Manor, though it's more than likely the Sidhe have come and taken it by now. I hope that's the case--good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." She sneezed again. "And that's it, really, or as much of it as I'm going to tell. I really don't want to think about the sort of mess a whole load of resurrected Snapes and Malfoys is going to make, and if it's all the same to everyone else I say we scrounge up some breakfast."

Harry opened his mouth, vaguely realizing he ought to speak, but was cut off by a rather impressive rumble from his stomach, which seemed to effectively end the conversation.

****

Half an hour later found Harry perched in the snow on the roof of the Great Hall, wrapped up in Malfoy's cloak, his feet lost in Ron's enormous boots. The mingled sounds of cleaning and feasting were emanating from the room below him, as those who were able set about repairing the wreckage and demolishing the wedding feast at the same time. The noise was cheerful, happy, as though the nightmare of yesterday had never happened. Harry could see how one could feel that way--the winter morning was dazzlingly beautiful, with an almost otherworldly air of calm and peace that seemed to sparkle off the snow with the early-morning sunlight.

He sighed. All was beautiful and peaceful and as it should be--the perfect happy ending--and yet deep inside he knew that it wasn't. Their troubles were not over yet, and if Dumbledore's misgivings were any indication what they were in for was far worse than anything they had yet lived through. He could take no joy in a victory he knew even now was incomplete; to do so would be to lie to himself. And so he sat, cold and unhappy on the snow-covered roof, and indulged in a fit of utter misery.

His despondent reverie was nicely shattered when a figure quite suddenly launched itself onto the roof, skidding through the snow and coming to a stop not far from him. It was Malfoy, though he was not immediately recognizable--his cloak was quite clearly Bill Weasley's, and if his shoes weren't Natalie MacDonald's Harry would eat his hat. The after-effects of Fred and George's curse seemed to have worn off completely--the Slytherin boy was sneering as murderously as Snape ever had, his expression once again hard and cold and not the least bit moony.

If Malfoy noticed Harry he gave no sign--merely scrambled up one of the chimneys and perched silently atop it, looking both sullen and angry. For a moment Harry was ready to dismiss him, until something occurred to him and he felt a sudden stab of pity for the boy.

"Hey," he called, hoping his assumption wasn't going to get him cursed.

Malfoy jumped. "Oh, it's you," he said, his voice once again dripping with the special derision he seemed to reserve just for Harry. For once he seemed to have forgotten utterly about Hermione, something which only served to reinforce Harry's convictions.

"Naw, it's my evil twin," Harry said, making no move to get up. Malfoy arched his eyebrows, but said nothing. If he wondered what Harry were doing up here, he didn't bother asking; he seemed more set on ignoring everything around him and perfecting his scowl than anything. Such was his grimace that Harry normally would have been fighting laughter, but at the moment he felt too sorry for Malfoy to taunt him.

"Malfoy," he said, drawing the other boy's eyes away from the sparkling blue sky. He looked at Harry, clearly expecting some sort of verbal blast. "Malfoy, you've been talking to Dumbledore, haven't you?"

Silence. Malfoy's grey eyes seemed to bore into his own, stabbing like twin icy nails as he regarded Harry narrowly.

"Yes, Potter, I have," he said at last, suspiciously. "He's already told me...everything, so don't think you need to rub it in." He folded his arms across his chest, clearly daring Harry to say something nasty.

"I wasn't going to rub it in," Harry said honestly. His pity for the other boy was somewhat lessened by this reemergence of the old Malfoy charm, but he couldn't honestly blame him for being so defensive--after all, if Harry himself had just been told his evil family was back from the dead, he wouldn't exactly be jumping for joy. "I was just going to say...well...sorry."

Malfoy didn't respond--his cold grey eyes were fixed on some unknown point on the horizon, dry and icier than the snow on which he sat.

"You know, it's not fair," Harry continued after a moment. Malfoy glanced at him. "I want my family back more than anything in the world, which there's chance of, and you, who probably wanted just the opposite, suddenly find out they're all alive again." Malfoy regarded him steadily, curiously. Harry offered him a weary grin. "You do know what this means, don't you?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"That the Fates really are a load of sadistic old bitches."

Malfoy stared at him a moment more, his face completely and utterly blank, before throwing back his head and letting out a great ringing shout of laughter that sent a massive ledge of snow crashing off the roof. It was a sound of pure and unadulterated merriment, tinged with inevitable Malfoy coldness but otherwise as carefree a noise as anyone else might make.

"Potter," he said, when at last he could speak again, "I do believe that's the first halfway witty thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment," Harry said dryly, but grinned nonetheless--if Malfoy could laugh in the midst of all his troubles, Harry himself had no right to sit and worry away a morning like this. "And I'm freezing my fingers off up here, so I think I'll go join the--er--party." He rose stiffly to his feet, numb joints protesting at the movement, and began tramping his careful way toward the drainpipe he had crawled up.

"Oh, and Malfoy," he said, half-turning. "Seeing as you've got no family now, I'm certain Doors would be more than willing to drag you back to the cottage over the summer."

The look of horror on Malfoy's face was enough to make him nearly fall off his odd ladder with laughter, and he slid down the pipe before the Slytherin could launch into a classic Malfoy tirade. He darted quick as he could back through the ruined front doors, slipping and sliding on the ice and nearly hiccoughing with hilarity.

The scene that awaited him in the Great Hall was enough to stop him dead in his tracks, however, and halt the laughter in his throat. Never in all his life had he seen a tableau so bizarre, so wonderful, or so lovely, and for a moment all he could do was stand and watch.

Literal bucketfuls of golden sunshine poured through the holes in the roof, splashing over the wonderful incongruity of golden plates and forks in the middle of massive ruin. Everywhere one could sit people sat, balancing plates on their knees and carrying on as though all were perfectly ordinary. Harry spotted Ginny Weasley not far from the door, apparently none the worse for her own misadventures and chattering contentedly with a Hufflepuff girl whose name escaped him. Angelina and his old Quidditch mates were all huddled in a group of their own, apparently hashing over, of all things, Latvia's performance in the last World Cup. 

Before he could wonder long on these oddities, he spotted Ron and Hermione threading their way through the people-packed rubble, each balancing three plates and, from the looks of it, bickering royally. He started after them, stumbling awkwardly in his over-large boots and nearly bowling Professor Trelawney into her porridge.

He caught up to them as they reached their destination, a small ring of smashed masonry that formed something rather like a gigantic bird's nest. Crammed within it were the Weasley twins, Bill, Charlie, Sirius, Lupin, Doors, and Lee Jordan, squashed like sardines amid piles of blankets. Fred and George were currently dueling with their forks (with Lee attempting to act as commentator and spewing chunks of food a good three feet), while Bill and Charlie exchanged barbs with Sirius and the Quidditch group over broomstick size (Harry could sense Hermione snickering horribly over the Freudian implications.) He had to wonder about Doors and Lupin, who were wrapped snugly and without any personal space whatsoever in an ancient quilted bedspread, bickering over a bowl of ice cream and absently correcting Lee's commentating when necessary.

Ron and Hermione plopped themselves unceremoniously beside Sirius, who edged over to give Harry room to sit as well. He took Hermione up on her offer of a blanket corner, trying rather unsuccessfully to ignore the sound of Petunia's overdramatic weeping--she alone seemed unhappy, her misery no doubt caused by Snape's not-so-untimely demise.

Doors grinned at him, smacking Lupin's spoon with her own and smearing chocolate syrup across the bedspread. "Everything all right now?" she asked, giving him a characteristically searching glance. "Remus, for the last time, the Cherry Garcia is _mine._" She rapped Lupin's knuckles with the spoon, eliciting a yelp and earning herself a blob of syrup on her nose. 

Ron and Hermione both glanced at Harry curiously--they had clearly been wondering what he was up to, and had likely been searching the hall for him while gathering food. 

"Yeah, I think so," he said, shooting a rather evil glance at Hermione. "I ran into Malfoy on the roof, and he and I decided it was best if we just waited for the future to come to us."

At the mention of Malfoy's name Hermione went extremely scarlet, and huffed something about deranged Slytherins that deceived neither he nor Ron one whit. The poor girl would likely have been subjected to a merciless taunting, had there suddenly appeared a distraction in the form of a three-legged ice-cream ball that pelted out of the circle and off through the crowd. It slammed head-on into Marge's backside, splattering with a shrieked, "Eeeee!"

"Well," said Ron, blinking. "That was random."

"Thank you, Remus," Doors said crossly. "There went my breakfast." Harry noticed that despite her annoyance she made no attempt to move from her position in the crook of Lupin's shoulder. Lupin himself merely sighed and forfeited what was left of the ice cream, earning himself an elbow in the ribs. Harry merely shook his head--those two had a relationship he would never understand.

"So, what's going to happen to the Dursleys?" he asked, seizing Fred's ignored plate and setting to on the trifle.

Sirius snorted. "I don't know, and personally I don't care. Both your aunts are absolutely _heartbroken_ over Snape, while your uncle seems stunned and your cousin--well, I believe the boy may be legally retarded." He wiped a stray smear off Harry's plate, complimented it with a smidgen of Doors's ice cream, and snatched Ron's goblet to complete the meal.

"Moocher," Doors muttered.

Harry shook his head once more. He had no doubt the Dursleys would be out of there as soon as was humanly possible, and he found that he was strangely devoid of any feelings on the subject--it was as though his heart had insulated itself against considering anything unpleasant, and despite everything he found himself filled with a warm, fuzzy sort of happiness that left him content to simply sit among a circle of his family and friends, eating Christmas breakfast in the ruins of the Great Hall with the golden sunshine pouring down around him like the glow of all the angels that ever were.

_This is home_, he thought, gazing around at all the people he knew so well, friend and foe, comrade and acquaintance. _This is home and this is my family, and no matter what, no power on earth can take it from me completely. It's too strong, too big, too _real_ to ever lose entirely. It's one thing I've got that no Snape or Malfoy or Death Eater could ever have--I love these people, and in some way most of them love me, and we're a family because of that. _He glanced at Seamus and his mother, remembering the pangs of envy he had felt when first the parents began arriving at the school. _It's not about parents or siblings, though I know they're here, too--my mother and father and all the brothers and sisters I would have had, somewhere in the sunshine around me. Everyone who ever was or every will be is here, so in a way we're never really alone or defeated--you can't lose what's always there._

-_Ah, child. You're a wise one, sure._- The Voice of the Neverstone sounded as pleased as he'd ever heard it, ringing cheerful and liltingly beautiful from somewhere within his head. -_You'll do well with what's ahead of you. Remember what you know--you'll sore need it, but if you hang onto it it'll see you through._-

Harry settled comfortably back against the masonry behind him, Fred's plate and a mug of steaming cocoa in his hands, and suddenly he laughed. Whatever lay ahead, whatever horrors awaited him in the months to come, for now everything was exactly as it should be. Let the future come--they'd meet it together when it did, and stand or fall Harry would feel no fear--he was with those he loved, and in the end, that was all anyone could wish. 

The End

A/N: Phew! That's that. It certainly took me long enough--I've been writing this thing for almost exactly a year, but now it's finished and I can move on to other things. (Be afraid.) So, what did you think? I know the plotline was utterly unbelievable from the start, but I tried to lend it what credibility I could, and leave it to you to judge whether or not I accomplished my task. I only hope it wasn't too utterly confusing, and that you got at least some moiety of enjoyment from reading it--I certainly enjoyed writing it, which I guess was the point in the first place. Do be a dear and let me know what you thought of it, and don't worry--there _is_ a sequel in the works for this monster, though it might be a while in coming. I extend a very large thank-you to everyone who stuck with this thing--I hope it was worth it, but if not, what the hell, it killed a few hours. ^_^

SpamWarrior


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